


This Golden Wolf Within

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Nargothrond, Several points of canon divergence, Violence, Werewolves, various werewolves, werewolf!Finrod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod Felagund was prepared to die in Sauron's dungeon, in defence of Beren. But he finds that he is very much alive, although not quite the same as before. Nargothrond, when he returns, has its own troubles. And meanwhile, two lovers are hunting for a Silmaril...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cold. Even as he lay on the cold stone floor beside the bulky form of the dead wolf, Finrod could feel his own consciousness slipping away. His face and chest were slick with blood, he was sure, but he couldn’t feel the warmth that blood usually held, only that creeping, numb cold. It was growing dark, even though it was already dark. But this blackness was in his head, seeping through his mind, tasting of death. He could hear a voice calling his name desperately, in anguish, but it grew quieter all the time.

He was slipping away, slipping, slipping… when suddenly it happened. A blinding flash of red-orange, flaring into white… something, a fury rising in the back of his mind, his body feeling again, his flesh seeming to rip into shreds, chest tearing down the middle.  _Was this what it felt like to die?_  But he did not feel as though he were dying, not anymore. He could feel his body splitting open, changing shape, a boundless energy boiling out of the blackness and coursing through his veins, burning away the clinging chill. He was so strong now, he thought, his hands were claws, he could move his limbs, even leap to his feet. He would live. Quite unexpectedly the desire to live had burst into his head, and his eyes were filled with white light as he hurled himself blindly in the direction of the door to the cell. The solid barred door came crashing down as though it were made of paper as he barrelled into it. _He was strong._ He bounded along dark, underground passages, strange misshapen creatures cowering into the shadows as he passed. He didn’t even pause to wonder at that, for it was unimportant. 

He didn’t know the way, but he knew that he had to go  _upwards_ ; up stairs, out of the tunnels, out of this damp, stoney darkness. Out into the open, under the sky. It was enough. Before long he was bursting out into the open air clawing and dragging himself from the ground as his feet lost purchase in the mud. He drew in at last a deep breath of clear, cold air, and with the air in his lungs he let out a howl, long and wild and ragged. That howl, he thought dimly, seemed to come from some other place; the blinding white light still burned in his mind, and it was as if he were simply an observer in his own head, watching his actions from a distance.

The brightness ripped through him, and before he realised it he was running, on all fours, his body taut and lithe and strong, his feet – no his  _paws_  – barely ghosting over the ground as he ran. He ran as if to burn the pain away, he ran because the smell of death was in the air and because running was all he knew. And yet his feet seemed to fly over the grassy ground beyond his control; he was imprisoned in his own mind, watching as the sparse trees flew by, gathering in the darkness until he was in the forest proper. The smell of the trees and the undergrowth at night was cold and pungent in his nose, the warm, bright heartbeats of tiny creatures nearby causing little spurts of bloodlust. This was not his body, he thought with a sudden sense of panic. Too low to the ground, and he was loping along on four legs, the wind streaming over his head… but there was nothing he could do, the white light burning in his vision, making his heart pound and his tongue loll from his mouth as he thirsted for blood, any blood, the light blindingly bright, filling his head with pain and rage and animalistic hunger. He howled again, his throat tearing, as he splashed through a river, the water ice cold and black in the moonless forest night. Suddenly he felt exhilarated. He could run all night, he could run and never stop, with the relentless energy that was pulsing through him, driving his muscles, compelling him to keep running. Home, anywhere, simply away from that place that had smelled of death.

He was moving fast, too fast, and on all fours… in some part of his mind he was dimly aware that the rain was whispering down through the trees around him, but he cared nothing for rain, he barely noticed it as his speed brushed the droplets impatiently from his fur.  _Fur? No, that wasn’t right –_  and yet it  _was_  right, he realised. He felt  _alive_ , almost painfully so, his  _fëa_  – or was it something else? – burning blue-white now, burning a hole in his chest.

It could have been minutes, hours, whole days that he ran. He had no sense of  time as the trees flashed past, picked out in quicksilver against the blackness, before he spotted something new ahead. A circle of golden light, a fire dancing amid the trees, the smell of smoke assaulting his acutely tuned senses. He bounded towards it, barely thinking. Two dark, cloaked figures were leaning towards the fire for warmth, he saw, a hound at their feet. As he approached, the hound leapt up, snarling low in its throat. The figures both whirled around in alarm. One cried out, the words strangely unintelligible to Finrod’s ears, and drew a longsword, the other a dagger. The words sounded strange, unlike any language he knew, but the hound’s snarl had conveyed a definite sense of a threat. With a single loping bound, he leapt over the creature, silhouetted in the firelight. Suddenly he felt, without knowing why, that he had to get to those two figures, to tear at their throats and make their blood gush hot and red, soaking into his fur. He was certain, with a deep, instinctive knowledge that he knew not the source of, that they had wronged him, these two, and that they must die for it.

He hurled himself at the one with the dagger, who gracefully dodged out of the way. The other one cried out, a wordless shout of rage, and slashed at him with the sword. Pain exploded above his left eye, blood dripping down and blinding him momentarily. In that moment, the hound lunged at him, but he swerved, throwing himself at the one first figure again. They fell heavily, tangled together and struggling. The hood fell back, revealing wide pale eyes, glinting in the firelight and the bright silver of Finrod’s altered vision.

The pale throat burned in his mind as a curtain of dark hair fell back, some strange half-memory compelling him to try to sink his teeth into yielding flesh… how the elf struggled though; he was stronger than Finrod had judged at first, and the dagger was still clutched in one hand, the blade flashing wickedly sharp as he lashed out at Finrod savagely. And even as Finrod glanced upwards he caught sight of the one with the other charging, sword raised aloft and fury in his pale eyes that matched those of the one Finrod struggled with. The hound was at his side, teeth bared for the attack, eyes blazing like his master’s.

But then Finrod’s attention was caught by something else, a dark silhouette materialising behind hound and master, rising out of the shadows beyond the circle of firelight. In that moment everything seemed to freeze; the struggling elf went still, the charging one lowered his sword slowly to his side. Even the hound seemed transfixed, staring at the figure. Finrod found himself unable to move, even as a churning panic roiled up inside him. He tried to tear his gaze away from that figure which was now lowering its hood, for he did not want to see what was beneath it, but he found he could not even move his eyes. He could hear words, strange words that, as before, his new ears could not understand, but that seemed to fix his limbs rigidly in place. He could see a pair of eyes that were like whorls of grey shadow, but flames danced in them that were not the reflection of the campfire. If he had been able to move he would have shuddered, or cowered, whimpering, but his body was no longer under his own control.

The figure was singing now, a song that seemed to curl its way around him, gripping his limbs tightly and forcing his muscles into motion, prying him off the elf he had been fighting. _Had he not once been able to do that? Could he not fight back?_  But Finrod had not the strength, his body felt wrong, strange, his voice incapable of song in his current state. And his memories were confused, giving in to blind panic as the song worked his limbs, taking him away from the firelight, trailing after him and continuing to hold him in its grip as he ran through the forest in the gloom.

He ran on through the night the song echoing impossibly in his head, fainter, but still there, creeping through his mind driving his legs into a rhythmic, loping motion. On and on he ran, the taste of blood thick in his mouth the smell of it clinging to his fur, hot and metallic. The strange burning energy that had pulsed through his body was all but gone now, the silver brightness that had limned the forest beginning to fade, the trees growing dim and indistinct.

And then, without any warning, even the song was gone. Darkness flooded his vision, and his legs felt suddenly weak as damp string. He stumbled, pitching forwards onto the wet grass. Then he let out a strangled cry of pain, as he felt his body ripping once again, as if giant hands were tearing him slowly limb from limb. And yet he was lying on the ground, his face pressed into the mud. The taste of earth was in his mouth, mingling with the tang of blood as he bit down on his lip. His teeth seemed almost to move and shift in his mouth, and he opened it wide with a cry that was half a whimper and half a cough. He wondered if he was truly going to die this time. Finrod didn’t know, couldn’t think, his mind twisted and addled by pain and exhaustion. Slowly, inexorably, the pain began to fade, replaced by a blind darkness slipping over his head. He knew he should fight it, to cling to whatever light there was, but he had not the strength. All he could do was to let himself fall into black haze that swam before his eyes, and then the darkness was absolute, and he knew no more.

————

He awoke to voices, familiar ones, although he could not immediately place them. For a while lay with his eyes closed, listening, before their meaning began to take shape.

“- but how long it will be now, I cannot say” a woman’s voice was saying, pinched with worry.

“You’re sure?” said another voice, male this time. “He will live?”

“I am sure of nothing” said the first voice grimly. “Whatever was done to him…” the voice wavered fractionally. “Well, that’s just it, I don’t  _know_  what they did to him. These are not like the usual sort of wounds, that is for certain. Maybe if…  _when_  he wakes, he will have some memory…” she fell into silence.

“Thank you for coming, aunt” burst out the other voice suddenly, thick with emotion. “And so quickly too. The healers of Nargothrond took one look at him and declared him dead, but I felt… I don’t know what I felt.”

“You felt his  _fëa_  in there somewhere, didn’t you Orodreth?” said the female voice. “I did too. It was faint though, and there’s no guarantee he will…” she paused. “I should have  _implored_ Melian to come here too. Dear Eru, I would have got down on my knees and  _begged_ , if I had known… I am only her pupil really, and I don’t know if I have done enough…”

“You’ve done all you can, and besides, you know how she is” said Orodreth firmly. “And you’re still a better healer than anyone else here who could have attended him.”   
There was a short pause before Galadriel spoke again. “And if he should not wake - ”

“Don’t say that!”

“-  _If_  he should not wake…” - Finrod felt a hand clasp his - “then I will at least be glad to have… been here. This time.”

No one said anything. After a while, Finrod gathered his strength and opened his eyes a little, the light of the lampstone painful despite its dimness. He blinked back tears, the haze clearing to reveal his sister and nephew staring down at him, their faces pale and worried, with matching dark circles under their eyes. He opened his mouth to try to speak, but only a strange sort of flat buzzing came out. His throat burned, and he could taste blood, as well as a nauseating sourness at the back of his dry tongue.

“Ingo! Praise Eru, you’re awake!” exclaimed Orodreth.

“Ingo” said Galadriel, her voice cracking a little. She squeezed his hand tightly.

“N – neither of you are wont to use the high tongue” he coughed out quietly, for they had. “Did I really have such a narrow escape…?”

“An extremely narrow escape” said Galadriel, switching smoothly back to the language of Beleriand. “But, it seems, an escape.” A broad smile lit her face. “Welcome back, brother.”

“Here” said Orodreth quickly, pouring a glass of water from a flagon on the table and handing it to Finrod. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

Finrod drank, long and gratefully. Then he looked back up at Orodreth and Galadriel, who were still staring at him as though waiting for something. He frowned. “What happened?”

Orodreth looked apologetic. “We were hoping you could tell us. Some of our scouts found you ten days ago, in a forest clearing not far from the gates, with no clothes or weapons. You were…” he paused as if unsure whether to continue.

“You were almost dead” said Galadriel frankly. “Your wounds were…” she ran a finger over the bandages that swathed Finrod’s chest. “Well, you  _should_  be dead. And yet, here you are.” There was a hint of a question in her voice.

Finrod strained his mind to brush theirs, even that small effort draining him. Both responded, however, and he saw the overlapping images in both their minds. His own body as the scouts carried him in, face pale under the caked dirt and blood. Too much blood, a jagged mesh of red gashes in his chest, raw, torn flesh that he felt pulsing under the layers of bandages even as he saw the images in their minds. His face, blood running down into his left eye from a long, deep gash at his forehead. He touched the spot gingerly, feeling yet another thick pad of clean linen bandages.

“Do you remember…?” even as Galadriel said the words she reached into his mind, but he pushed her gently back, the better to try to untangle his own memories for himself.

“I remember…” he frowned. “I remember… night. Stone and metal bars, chains. Pain. I think… I think I was underground…? And then I was running…” he was silent for a moment. Memories came, and his head snapped upwards. “What of Beren? We were in Gorthaur’s dungeons, I had tried to hold the dark one off with songs of power, but he was too strong for me” he shuddered at the memory of those strange, twisting songs the Maia had sung, wrapping and twining around his body, stopping his voice in his throat and clamping his muscles rigid.

“He put us in the dungeon…” he tried to remember, but the images were blurry. Something else was there, some memory that he couldn’t quite grasp, that seemed to come from someone else’s mind, pressing up again his own, and yet it did not feel like the familiar thought patterns of his sister and nephew. Perhaps he had hit his head? He licked his cracked lips, trying to remember, but there seemed to be a barrier beyond which he could remember nothing. He felt for its borders, trying to recall what had come immediately before. “There were… eyes… wolves! In the dark. They killed them all…” he looked up. “We were… chained…”

But Galadriel was holding him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, stroking his hair. “Hush, Ingo, no need to go over it now. You may have to later, but for now you are safe.”

“It’s lucky I could get a message to Doriath in time, for it was your sister that saved you, really” said Orodreth thoughtfully.

“Doriath…” something stirred in Finrod’s memory. And then it was all coming back, horror and foreboding awakening inside him. “Beren!” he exclaimed. “And Lúthien. But Beren… he was with me when…” he looked up at Galadriel and Orodreth with little hope, “do you know…?”

“Lúthien has escaped from Doriath” said Galadriel. “I came to bring the news to Nargothrond, at least ostensibly. Elu guessed that Beren would come to you for help, and then when his daughter left, he guessed that she would follow Beren.” Her face darkened. “Of Beren… we were hoping that you could tell us that too.”

Finrod shook his head, slowly and wordlessly. Beren, he realised, was almost certainly dead. Then a new thought struck him. “And Curufin and Celegorm? Where are they?”

“They left Nargothrond, to hunt the wolves of the enemy” said Orodreth. “That was two weeks ago now, and they have not returned.”

Finrod frowned, for the thought of the sons of Fëanor had awoken something in his memory, something recent and vivid, like a scrap of a nightmare… darkness, fire, claws, a blade, a strange cloaked figure with burning eyes… and then it was gone, as a dream slips away when one tries to pin it to waking memory in the morning.

“Don’t do that, you’ll make it worse!” His sister interrupted his thoughts, gently taking his hand away from his forehead, where he had been unconsciously running his fingers over the bandage above his eye as he struggled to remember. “That wound was deep. The blade that made it was  _sharp_ , Ingo. Too sharp. Almost like… but no, it can’t be. I don’t suppose you remember…?”

She trailed off as he shook his head, and shrugged apologetically.

“You should rest” said Orodreth, sounding troubled, “you were badly hurt,  _fëa_  and  _hröa_  alike, and are still far from recovery.” At once Finrod realised he was right. Although he had only been awake for a few minutes, he still felt bruised, and his mind exhausted from his efforts to remember.

“Memory can wait” said his sister. “Sleep now. We’re here, and we will hold Nargothrond against any enemy that should come.”

Her words were infused with power, a kind of healing balm, and before she had finished her sentence Finrod felt himself falling, sinking back into the bed. “Wolves…” he muttered, his thoughts beginning to drift apart like clouds, before he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Curufin struggled desperately, narrowly dodging a swipe of the great wolf’s claws to his face, the back of its paw brushing his temple instead. He slashed out viciously with his dagger, but the thing dodged the blow and his arm went wide. He winced as the monstrous wolf regained its balance. It seemed uncoordinated, he realised, determined not to let panic take hold of him as it came in for a bite to his neck. A young, inexperienced wolf, perhaps? But it was so large… it was wounded, Curufin realised now, blood staining the pale gold fur of its breast, dark in the firelight. It was also bleeding from a cut over its left eye, where his brother’s sword had caught it, the blood temporarily blinding it on that side. In the split second it took for this realisation to become a conscious thought, he had already taken advantage of it, throwing his body weight into a sudden roll to his right, into what he hoped was its blind spot.

Sure enough, he heard a sudden keening of pain as it hit its muzzle against the ground where he had been moments before, and then a furious snarl as it turned back towards him. Realising with a stab of horror that he had only made it angry, he tried to twist out of reach, but it was no good; the creature was too quick for him, pinning him to the ground with a single enormous paw on his chest and lunging for his throat again. Time seemed to slow to a near halt as Curufin caught the glint of its eyes in the firelight. There was something nightmarish in those eyes, something so very other, but also something familiar. Frighteningly, maddeningly familiar, although he could not quite place it. He was dimly aware of his brother’s shout of fury and Huan’s bark as they charged to his aid. But they would be too late, Curufin knew with a sudden clarity, those jaws were so close now, the world narrowing so that it contained only him and the wolf. 

And then, without warning, it froze, its head jerking upwards. At first Curufin thought that Celegorm and Huan had successfully distracted it, but then he became aware of another sound; a strange, twisting song, the melody twisting its way through the clearing. The voice sounded  _almost_  elven, but there was something else in it, an otherness that removed it just enough from his own experience so as to be deeply disquieting.  _Lúthien_. Of course. Curufin had almost forgotten her, in the heat of the attack, but now her song was growing in strength, coiling and entwining and  _gripping_ … the wolf let out a whimpering whine, drawing back from him.  _Is she saving my life?_  

The wolf was backing away from the clearing now, into the shadows, its ears pressed back flat and its tail between its legs. Its movements were jerky, as if it were compelled by some huge invisible hand. Curufin sat up, staring at the shadowy figure of the Þindarin princess suspiciously as she lowered her hood. She stood there with one hand slightly raised, the power of her voice trained on the wolf, driving it back. After a moment it simply turned tail and disappeared from sight, with a final flash of firelight glancing off its golden pelt as it vanished into the trees.

When it had gone, Lúthien stopped singing and sighed, lowering her hand. Curufin tried to see the eyes of their strange captive, but they were hidden by the hood of her cloak again before he could see her face. It made him slightly uncomfortable.

“What did you - ” began Celegorm, looking nonplussed, but his words were cut off suddenly, his sentence ending in a strangled choking sound.

“ _No_ ” pronounced Lúthien. Her voice was quiet, but seemed to carry unnaturally clearly across the dark forest glade, as if the small forest night sounds had all been stilled at her command. There was power in her voice still, Curufin realised with a flicker of apprehension. And now it was trained on them, for he could feel his voice sticking useless in his throat even as he tried to speak himself. In annoyance, he tried to get to his feet, but he found that his own muscles were locked rigid, arms and legs clamped in place although the song was ended. He felt an unwelcome stab of panic.

Lúthien looked at Celegorm, then at Huan, then at Curufin, and then back to Celegorm again. She sighed deeply once more. “I am sorry” she said, her tone calm and pleasant, with even a hint of genuine remorse to it, Curufin thought. “I am sorry for what I am about to do. That you two had to get dragged into this, for the sake of some ill-thought-out fancy of my father’s. I know what those jewels truly are as well as any, and what is at stake for you. But this is the way it must be.”

Curufin could see Celegorm trying to speak, balling his hands into fists in frustration as he tried vainly to reach for his sword again.

“Huan!” cried Lúthien, and the hound bounded to her side. Celegorm’s eyes went wide, his face contorting with pain and rage as he realised what was going on. But he could no more than stand and watch, as Lúthien began to sing once more.

Curufin tried to prepare himself this time, to put up walls around his mind, but it was no good; the song seemed to percolate through his very  _fëa_ , grasping and ensnaring, compelling him to do her bidding. He tried to cover his ears, but his arms were still firmly locked in place, outside of his control. He struggled desperately, enraged and more than a little panicked as the song wound its bonds tighter around him, and he could see Celegorm doing the same. He wished he had paid more attention when he was a child and Maglor had come home from his lessons, gushing enthusiastically about songs of power and their uses. If only he had thought to learn something of the basics himself… but he had thought it a mere frivolity at the time, as he had so much else, an amusing trick that would be useless against any true opponent.  _As if I knew what that even meant_ _then_ , he thought bitterly.  _As if any of us did._  Perhaps if his brother had been here with them… but Curufin wondered whether even Maglor could hold his own here, against that shadowy figure with the voice that seemed to weave a web of purest shadow, velvet-soft but binding tighter than steel cords.

And yet, he thought suddenly, it was beautiful; devastatingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful, low and dark and sweet. Almost cloyingly sweet, making him feel suddenly light headed, as if the air had grown thick and hot. He realised he was felt sleepy, a sudden lethargy making his body seem heavy as a stone, his head tipping forward onto his chest as if someone were forcibly bending his neck. He blinked, trying to keep his eyes from closing, but they itched with tiredness. The ground felt so comfortable all of a sudden, he could simply lie down and sleep right there…  _no_ , he thought desperately.  _No. It’s only a trick, an enchantment…_  but enchantment or not, the edges of his vision were growing dark, his hearing buzzing strangely. Again, he caught himself with his head falling forwards, and jerked his neck back upwards, fighting the compulsion to sleep. He could not turn, but he could hear Celegorm make a muffled noise of protest from the other side of the campfire.

At that something seemed to snap, and Curufin realised with horror that Lúthien had only been playing before, letting them feel like they were fighting, winning even; but now her patience was wearing thin. All at once, sleep came down on him like a stone slab, crushing him into submission, his consciousness fleeing as the waves of melody wrapped him securely and pressed his body to the ground, paralysed as in the moment of waking too soon from a dream.

“Huan!” he heard her call with the last of his hearing, as the song suddenly stopped, and he was left falling, pitching backwards into the dreamless oblivion of deep, deep sleep.

———

“Curvo.”

The voice was faint and indistinct, echoing strangely as if he were hearing it from the bottom of a deep well, and yet it was most definitely his brother’s.

“Tyelko” he muttered back, his mind still fuzzy, floating in the haze between sleep and waking.

“Curvo, wake up.” The voice was more insistent now, and, accompanied by the feeling of his shoulder being shaken, it jolted him fully awake.

He opened his eyes, and, being greeted by a painfully bright blaze of morning sunlight overhead, promptly shut them again. When he opened them a second time, however, it was to see his brother looking down at him in concern, his own eyes red-rimmed and his hair damp and matted with mud and twigs.

“Tyelko, what - ” then memory was returning to him. “The girl! Is she gone?” A stupid question, he realised, looking around the clearing. Of course she was gone.  He cursed himself for a careless fool. Then he noticed something else.

“Brother… where is Huan?”

Celegorm stiffened at that, his face darkening. Curufin’s mind worked furiously, as he tried to recall the moments before he had fallen into darkness… he had heard her call the hound, he remembered now. Had Huan heeded the summons? Had he betrayed them? Curufin grimaced, wondering how much choice his brother’s dog had had in the matter.

“Do you think… do you think he was…  _compelled_  to go with her?” asked Celegorm, as if guessing his thoughts. His mouth twitched as though he were struggling to keep his face expressionless and his voice even. “Or… or…?”

“It is difficult to say for certain” said Curufin absently, trying to think. He had woken with a blinding headache, his temples pulsing unpleasantly as if he had drunk too much wine the night before. Around him the world swayed sickeningly and his eyes itched and burned. He rubbed them angrily, cursing his body for betraying him, clouding his judgment. He cursed Lúthien, too, and Huan, and himself and his brother and the whole ridiculous situation.  _Even now_ , he thought,  _even now she’s probably on her way to Angband. Very well. Let her die there, along with that foolish mortal pet of Findaráto’s._ The thought gave him a stab of savage pleasure.

When he said nothing more, Celegorm flashed him a dark look but did not speak either, looking down at where his hands fidgeted fitfully with the edge of his cloak, tearing threads loose, as was his habit. One thread was trailing from the fabric, and he tried to pull it free, lips pressing together in frustration as Curufin watched. When the strand would not tear, he drew his hunting knife from its sheath, hacking viciously at the finely spun woolen thread. When this was done he cast it aside distractedly and then, as if lacking anything else to do with his hands, he began to toy with the knife, turning it over and over. His grey-green eyes seemed to stare through Curufin without seeing him, a glare gathering on his face and his cheeks flushing with rage and humiliation as Curufin watched.

“Tyelko” he said quietly. His brother looked up, for a moment appearing almost surprised, as if he had forgotten he was not alone. In that same moment, his hands slipped, fumbling his grip on the knife and a moment later bright blood was blooming from the base of his thumb. Celegorm gave a hiss of pain and surprise, a sharp indrawn breath, before leaping suddenly to his feet and driving the blade into the trunk of a tree with a wordless cry of anger. It stuck there, shuddering a little as Celegorm turned away, his eyes downwards and his tangled hair hanging over his face, breathing heavily. Slowly he raised his head and looked at Curufin, his eyes empty. “I’m sorry, Curvo. I’m… are you…?”

“I have felt better…” he grimaced, massaging a temple and trying to think clearly. He ran his fingers through his hair, finding that it was damp and filthy from lying on the muddy ground. He frowned. His clothes were damp too, although he could not remember there being rain, and the dew had mostly been burned away by the bright morning sun, beginning to rise high over the clearing. “How long were we asleep?”

Celegorm shrugged. “I was going to ask you. I woke a few minutes ago and saw you there. I thought…” his voice was brittle as he tailed off, his face betraying his worry. Curufin thought for a moment. “Could you ask the birds?” His brother could talk to birds, and could take their forms if he liked, see through their eyes, but Curufin could see the worry flicker through Celegorm’s eyes.He didn’t even need to touch his mind to know that his brother worried that animals would never quite respond to him in the same way again now that Huan was lost.

Celegorm paled a little. “I… I can try…”

Curufin nodded firmly. Celegorm stared around at the treetops for a moment, and then, as if finding what he sought, he leaned back against the tree, folding his arms and closing his eyes. For a long while he stood like that, his jaw set in concentration and his head thrown back, perfectly still apart from his eyes, which flickered fitfully back and forth beneath closed lids as though he were dreaming. Curufin waited patiently, watching with concern as a tiny frown gathered on his brother’s brow. Suddenly, Celegorm’s head fell forward, his eyes snapping open with a gasping breath. His mouth was twisted, his face a mask of shock.

“What? What did you see?”

“I looked through a raven’s eyes” said Celegorm, slowly. “I flew far… to Nargothrond, or near enough…”

“Has she returned there?” Curufin was incredulous. “Was she fool enough…?”

Celegorm looked him in the eye, his voice bitter. “I don’t know where Thingol’s daughter went, and I don’t care. Let Morgoth dispose of her for us, if she should even survive Gorthaur’s wolves in the forest. No, it’s something else.”

“What?”

“Curvo, I saw…”

“ _What?_ ” He was growing impatient, his head pounding. “Tell me!”

“Findaráto is not dead.”

Curufin’s eyes widened.

“They managed to get themselves captured, he and the mortal, so the birds say. I was told they were rotting in a dungeon in Tol-in-Gaurhoth…” he frowned. “But then I saw… thought I saw…” he took a breath. “The scouts of Nargothrond found a body in the forest, horribly wounded, bleeding. They thought he was dead at first, but he wasn’t. I could feel his  _fëa_ , Curvo, even from high in the branches. He was… so very bright… silver…” Celegorm was breathing heavily, his mind, Curufin guessed, still half fused with that of the raven. “He was alive, just.” Celegorm seemed to regain his composure a little. “They carried him back in the direction of Nargothrond with all speed.”

Curufin said nothing, his mind working over the implications. “You’re sure it was him?”

“I am certain.”

“He was badly wounded though, you said.”

“Close to death.”

“But alive yet?”

“Whether he dies in Nargothrond, or in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, or at the very gates of the black land with a Silmaril in his hand, it makes no matter. He will still be dead. What does it matter to us?” The question, Curufin thought, was probably meant to be rhetorical, but it came out sounding more like Celegorm was pleading for reassurance. Or trying to offer it. “They’ll all be dead before this is over anyway.”

“You fool” spat Curufin, suddenly angry. “You realize what this means? Do you see how bad this looks for us?"

Realisation flashed across Celegorm's features. "You mean... they'll think... we did it...?" He passed a hand across his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But of course, we encourage Findaráto to leave, then we go hunting and return, it doesn't look suspicious. But if they find his body in the forest, and we still have not returned..." he looked at Curufin. "I know what conclusion _I_ would jump to."

"We can’t return to Nargothrond now. Artaresto will never allow us back, not while his uncle lies dying because of us. And then if he should live the consequences would be even worse. He could tell them it was not us... but I do not think Findaráto would do that, and even if he did, Artaresto's mind is probably already made about what happened, so he might not even listen to a little thing like the statement of the victim, his king and uncle." Curufin's voice was bitter. "But Tyelpë is there still, and I doubt very much they will let him leave now. The trap they could set for if they chose to would be all too effective.” He balled his hands into fists. “A curse on dear cousin Findaráto for not dying when he was supposed to!”

Celegorm thought for a moment. “We could… have someone do it for us…? Tyelpë? He would, if you asked it of him.”

Curufin snorted. “For what? For revenge? I do admit, the idea has some merits..." _and Tyelpë might be able to escape in the confusion it caused,_ he thought _...or he might fail and be killed himself. No, it was too dangerous._ "Besides, I wouldn’t have thought that sort of thing was to your taste, Tyelko. Too much secrecy. Not enough smashing down doors and shooting things full of arrows. Besides, if we had any way of getting a message to Tyelpë, then we wouldn’t have this problem. We could get into Nargothrond and do it ourselves.”  _And if Tyelpë should fail, if he should be caught in the act…_ he did not like to think of what would happen to his son in that case. 

Celegorm looked hurt. “Well, what do  _you_  suggest?” he growled.

Curufin thought for a while. “Lúthien” he said finally. “She is the key, I am certain of it. If we are outlaws now, then that makes Tyelpë a hostage. They may be satisfied with a bargain though, for a fair trial for a crime that we are innocent of is not in the offing in any case.”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow. “You mean to find her again… and exchange her for Tyelpë? A high price to pay, if we can recapture her at all… would it not be better to sell her back to her father in exchange for His Royal Arrogance of Doriath calling off the quest for the Silmaril…?”

Curufin rounded on him. “Tyelpë is my son, and your blood too, I may remind you! Does the house of Fëanáro have so little pride left that we leave our own as captives in the hands of the enemy?”

“We did it with Nelyo” pointed out Celegorm quietly, his voice cracking a little.

Curufin could feel his face darkening. “This is different. A different situation. And this time, we even have a  _choice_  in the matter.”

The silence stretched out between them as they both contemplated this.

“Very well” said Celegorm. “We look for Lúthien. She and Huan can’t have got far.”


	3. Chapter 3

Finrod was running again.  _Maybe_ , he thought,  _I never stopped_. He couldn’t remember. In that moment, the cold forest night streaming through his fur seemed to strip the memories away, the white light burning in his skull and his mouth aching for blood as he loped through the woods on silent feet. Wild joy coursed through him, for he was alive, and he was strong; he could run forever, and the forest and the night were all he needed.

But then it was all fading, the silver-limned trees dissolving into blackness, even as he cried out in blind panic, trying to run faster. But now his legs were weakening, and felt heavy as stone. He lost his pace, and then his balance, tumbling onto the forest floor. It felt wrong, disturbingly  _warm_ … and his legs were tangled in something, something soft that was constricting his whole body… he thrashed angrily, and his eyes flicked open. Light flooded his vision, but a different light now, faded firelight instead of that bright, blinding white, or the blackness of the forest outlined in silver. Then he realised he was in a bed, gasping and crying out, clawing at the blankets in which his arms and legs were enmeshed.

“Uncle!” Orodreth started awake in the wicker armchair beside his bed, blinking owlishly even in the dim red glow from the embers in the hearth. “I… I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep, so I came to check on you… I must have dozed off…”

“It’s quite alright, I was only dreaming…”  _as we all do_ , he thought, and frowned. Orodreth had dreams sometimes, he knew, vivid dreams that showed him glimpses of what was to come, and Finrod suspected that behind Orodreth’s confession that he had simply slept badly lay something slightly more disturbing. But he did not press the point, for Orodreth was looking at him in consternation. “I will be fine” said Finrod firmly. “You should go to sleep.” He tried to muster a smile. “You are my regent after all. Think how it would look if you fell asleep in a council meeting.”

Orodreth smiled feebly, a weary smile which did not reach his eyes.

“You’re right of course, uncle. But if you…” Orodreth tailed of, as though he were not sure whether he should continue.

“If I need anything there are plenty of people around to see to it” said Finrod, gently but firmly. Orodreth did not look reassured.

“I know there are dreams” he said quietly. “I have them too. There are… things… dark things… I don’t understand them…”

Finrod rubbed his temple thoughtfully. “I’m sure there will come a time when we will understand, perhaps too well” he said at last. “But until then, that’s all they are. Just dreams.”

He only wished he could believe it himself.

———

“Curvo.”

“What?” he could not help but snap at his brother, for he knew what was to come. The rain poured down around them, despite their attempts to take shelter in the trees, and both brothers were soaked through their clothes, their thick hunting leathers and their heavy woolen outer cloaks alike. Celegorm was fletching arrows, not looking at him, but Curufin’s hands felt restless, twisting together ceaselessly. His fingers kept straying to where Angrist’s hilt had been.  _Until she took it._  Whenever he though of it, he ground his teeth in frustrated humiliation.

“We’re not going to find her” said Celegorm flatly, still not looking up. “We’ve been searching for more than a week, and if she were still here, the birds would have seen her, or one of the other animals at least… I would have surely found her by now…”

“Ah yes, Tyelko the voice of rationality” said Curufin archly. He rolled his eyes. “Tell me again how all the creatures on this earth listen to you. Start with Huan.”

That had been cruel, and Curufin knew it, but he found the words slipping from his mouth anyway. Sure enough, a flush of anger and wounded pride was rising on Celegorm’s cheeks.

“I only meant that we should give up this ridiculous search” said Celegorm, throwing down his knife and quiver. “For Eru’s sake, she’s half Maia, Curvo. If she wants to hide, she can probably melt into thin air or turn into a tree or something. This search will not avail us anything.”

Curufin sighed, knowing his brother spoke the truth. “We can’t go back to Nargothrond” he said, although they had had this conversation countless times, “we’re likely to be thrown in some prison cell on charges of conspiring to kill the king and take power, and then absconding. They might even be as creative as to say we conspired with our Enemy. We will find no friends in Nargothrond, and if we simply present ourselves before Findaráto we will be completely at his mercy.”  _Like your son is right now_ , thought Curufin, guilt twisting in his stomach, and he felt a renewed stab of anger at Finrod. Finrod would pity his son, Curufin knew, offer him a kind hand and tell him there was hope for him yet, despite what he had been born to. Finrod would be condescending but oh-so-kind, would try to turn him against his father, who was, after all, a traitor now… a flicker of doubt stirred in Curufin’s heart. _Surely Tyelpë would not be fooled…?_

“What you said before” said Curufin suddenly, “about Tyelpë… and Findaráto. I’ve changed my mind. It doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now.”

“You…” Celegorm looked up at him at last. “You want him dead now? But you said yourself, there’s no way - ”

“I think I know a way” said Curufin. “Tyelko, how strong is your mastery of the minds of birds…?”


	4. Chapter 4

Celebrimbor stood staring at the dead bird in the fireplace for a long while, wondering what it meant. It was not one of the starlings that nested in the lofts and crawl-spaces cut into the ceilings of the caves of Nargothrond, of that Celebrimbor was sure. It was a blackbird, like the ones he had seen out in the surrounding forest. Its feathers, which would once have been sleek and glossy, were now broken, rumpled, and dusted with ash from the remains of his fire that he had allowed to go out the evening before. One of its eyes was closed, the other open. It stared up at him with a glassy gaze covered by a film of grey ash, betraying nothing.

He peered up into the chimney, but all he could see was darkness as the pipe narrowed, joining the intricate network of ventilation shafts that were cut into the stone walls and ceiling of Nargothrond, threading their way eventually to the outside. He shook his head, wondering, for his room was several levels underground and there was a vanishingly small chance of the bird reaching his fireplace by accident.

There was, he saw now, a small scroll of paper tied to one of its legs. Gingerly, he leaned over and gently unfastened it, unrolling the tightly folded sheet and trying to brush the ash from it as best he could. It was slightly damp, and the ink had smudged a little, but still legible. The hand was a very familiar one. He read the words quickly, and then read them again, hoping that they might have changed.

_"Tyelperinquar,_

_By the time you read this, all Nargothrond will be against us. Whether Findaráto lives or dies, Artaresto has no love for our house and will spread petty lies about us, never doubt that. This attack was not orcs' work, and everyone knows it. We will be implicated in what happened, and suspicion will spread. But you must believe me when I say we had nothing to do with his injury. It may be to his advantage to pretend otherwise, or perhaps he will have no memory and will be pliant when his underlings plant suggestions in his mind. Thus we cannot return, and it is not safe for you either anymore. You need to get out, otherwise you will be held and used against us._

_You are probably already being watched, although you may not know it yet. Find a way out into the forest and Tyelkormo and I will find you there. Events have moved quickly, and I will tell you more in person, for I dare not put it in this letter. Be cautious, and beware Findaráto, should he survive. Every moment you stay there you are in the power of the house of Arafinwë. The dagger I made for you is sharp. Keep it close, and do not hesitate to use it if you must. Burn this letter._

_Good fortune my son,  
_ _Your father,  
_ _Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanorion."_  

Celebrimbor curled his fist around the paper, crushing it into a ball in his palm. He had noticed, of course, the guards that had been placed at the ends of the corridor his rooms opened onto. There were a pair outside the forges now too. All were unobtrusive, but most definitely there where they had not been before. He had thought little of it, had assumed it was simply a general security measure. Nargothrond strengthening its defences perhaps, after its King’s sudden return, wounded and on the very brink of death.

The dagger that the letter had spoken of was in his desk drawer, and Celebrimbor found his eyes straying to the handle. He opened the drawer and took it out, feeling the weight of steel in his hand and the perfect balance of it, running his finger along the finely inlaid hilt. He wondered if he may have cause to use it, his stomach twisting a little at the thought. Fighting orcs, longsword in hand, he could do if his life were in danger. Enemies that were clearly enemies he knew how to handle, but this… _could Findaráto and Artaresto truly…? Surely not._ And there was Artanis now, he thought, lately arrived from Doriath, on the king’s business but arriving just in time to heal her brother… he cringed a little as he imagined her thinking that his father and uncle had arranged for Findaráto’s injury, even made a botched murder attempt. She wouldn’t think he himself was complicit, would she?

Celebrimbor did not know. Then another thought struck him, and he drew in a breath. His father had said it had not been them, but what if… the letter itself had said that it looked suspicious, and Celebrimbor could see that as well as any… _no. My father would not lie to me, he would not, he would not…_ he realised that he was biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. _Either way_ , he realised with a jolt, _it makes no matter. He’s right, I need to find a way out._

Celebrimbor lit the candle on the table. Touching the corner of the letter to the flame he watched the paper curl into ash and the smoke wind its way upwards, until he felt it burn his fingertips.

\------ 

Days had passed into weeks before Celebrimbor got his chance. But during that time he had noticed more and more guards, quietly tailing him as he walked down corridors. They stayed at a respectful distance, but their presence was no less noticeable. He had taken to carrying the dagger with him at all times, tucked inside his clothes, close to his skin. He could not quite say why, for, he knew, if it came to fighting he would have no chance. They would all turn against him, he knew, and it seemed the very air would ignite at a single spark… his father had not been wrong about the talk, the accusations. Nargothrond was almost aflame already, crackling with wild speculation and rumour, some too outlandish to possibly contain a grain of truth. _King Felagund slew a werewolf with his bare hands and teeth. The Lords Celegorm and Curufin have made a terrible blood pact with Morgoth. Beren and Lúthien are alive and have a Silmaril. Doriath has fallen to the enemy’s wolves. The Halls of Mandos are spitting the dead back out._

Celebrimbor didn’t believe any of it for a second, but there were more troubling stories that did concern him. _Celegorm and Curufin are dead. They plotted to kill the King. The son is in on it too, and has been set to attack Nargothrond from the inside, winning our trust and then letting in his father’s people. They want revenge for Felagund and Beren daring to seek a Silmaril._ Celebrimbor caught the suspicious glances that came his way too, and he had become used to the guards trailing him, although they still kept a respectful distance. _They are right to suspect me,_ he thought ruefully, _I too would suspect me, if our situations were reversed._

He nodded to one of the guards at the end of the corridor as he left his rooms that morning, giving the man a blithe grin and a wink which was met with stoney-faced disdain. They never reacted to his defiant smiles or attempts to engage them in conversation. Celebrimbor supposed they had been ordered not to speak to him. _Well, it was only to be expected._

“Celebrimbor!” He whirled at the sound of the voice from the other end of the corridor, and started when he realised who had come to speak to him.

“King Felagund?” he tried to force his voice to be as detached and formal as he could. He had not seen Finrod since he had left his sickbed, and Celebrimbor did not care to misjudge the situation. He gave a small bow. “I was glad when I heard of your full recovery.”

“Indeed” said Finrod, and for a brief instant Celebrimbor thought he saw a flicker of… _something_ pass across his face. But a scant moment later that face was serene again, although, Celebrimbor saw, where once the skin had been smooth and flawless, there were now long, pink scars across Finrod’s cheeks and forehead, not yet old enough to have turned to silver. They reminded Celebrimbor uncomfortably of his uncle Maedhros, although these scars were different, long, thin parallel scratches that looked for all the world as though they had been made by _claws_ … _but the spacing of them…_ he suppressed a shudder, trying not to think about how large the creature that had made those marks would have had to have been. He forced his face into a smile as he met Finrod’s eye. “What brings you to see me, my King?”

Finrod smiled too. “I think a conversation between the two of us is in order, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Celebrimbor had been expecting this, yet he did not even try to tell himself that he had not been dreading it. For now, he supposed, he would find out whether the suspicions of his father, the suspicions that had also been growing in his own mind, were correct.

“You have not left Nargothrond, have you?” Finrod was saying. “Not since…” he seemed to cast around for the right words. “Not since my return.”

 _No, because you set guards to watch me day and night._ “No, I have not. I have been… busy.” That at least was true enough, for he had desperately sought distraction since receiving the letter, most days in the library or the forge, although the results had been mixed.

“Then you must miss the open air” Finrod answered. “Walk with me? For Nargothrond is filled with eyes and ears, and I feel the forest will be a more… fitting place to have this discussion.”

Celebrimbor felt a momentary flicker of alarm, but he suppressed it. “As you wish, my King.”

“Please, call me by my name, as you once did. I am little changed, except perhaps in face.”

Celebrimbor nodded and muttered his assent. Finrod smiled tightly as they mounted the spiral staircase at the end of the corridor, giving the guard a nod. They climbed in silence, Finrod ahead and Celebrimbor following a little behind him. _He is leading me out, up,_ thought Celebrimbor, _but he takes care not to be in a position where I could push him down these stairs_. He darted a furtive glance behind him. The spiral was tight, the stairs steep and narrow. _It would be easy for him to... or I could… no._ He fixed his eyes determinedly forwards towards Finrod’s golden head, though most of the colour had been drawn from his bright hair by the blue-white glow of the lampstones mounted in the wall-brackets.

After a while, it seemed to Celebrimbor almost as if they were repeating the same section of the spiral, locked in a endless loop of stairs and lampstones. The sound of their footsteps echoed strangely off the walls, and Finrod’s golden head in front of him and above… but almost as soon as that thought had cross his mind, they had reached the top of the spiral, and they were in front of a small, discrete but solid-looking wooden door with another unsmiling guard standing squarely in front of it. When Finrod inclined his head at the guard though, she took a ring of keys from her belt and unlocked the three locks of the door.

After a moment, the two of them were stepping out into bright daylight, making Celebrimbor blink for a moment. Behind them the rock face loomed high above, and some distance off, Celebrimbor could make out the main gate of Nargothrond. It was raining, a fine, whispering drizzle that was almost mist but not quite. The sky was a milky grey, bright though it had seemed when they had stepped out of the door. They stood on a narrow paved terrace, from which stairs, pressed close against the rock, led down to where the river thundered below. Finrod smiled, beckoning Celebrimbor down the stairs. Celebrimbor followed, until they reached a narrow strip of muddy bank between the waters of Narog and the upwards slope towards the cliff. The rain was dampening Celebrimbor’s hair, soaking into it and causing it to curl, and whisps of it to stick to his forehead. He brushed it aside uncomfortably, blinking a drop of water from his eye as the rain grew heavier. They walked along the bank for a while, still in silence, and soon enough trees began to appear to either side until they were in the forest proper. They were also well out of sight of any of the patrolling city guards, or the sentinels on the walls. Celebrimbor was not entirely sure he like the implications of that.

“So” said Finrod, stopping suddenly and turning to face him. “I suppose you know what I wanted to speak to you about.”

Celebrimbor met his gaze. “I have heard certain… accusations being thrown about” he said carefully.

“There are indeed plenty of lurid stories being circulated by idle gossips” said Finrod. “I want to know the truth.” He gave Celebrimbor a long look, and in his voice was an edge, a challenge. “Can you give me that?”

“I could if I knew it” said Celebrimbor, truthfully. He remembered his father’s attempts to teach him to guard his thoughts, for he felt Finrod’s mind uncomfortably close, pressing in at his own. He remembered how he had never been particularly good at it. He tried to force any hint of expression from his face, at the very least. “I know as little as you do, and if I did know more of the circumstances of the… attack, I would tell you.”

 _Surely he must know more than I do_ , he thought suddenly. _In which case, this is most certainly a test._

“Don't you remember anything that would suggest that there was any truth to the rumours?” Celebrimbor said pleasantly.

Finrod spread his hands in front of him, looking genuinely troubled. “The injuries themselves were not dealt by marauding orcs, that is for certain. I recall very little of the incident itself. If I did remember, well…” he frowned. “Then this would be a lot easier.”

 _If he is acting, he is doing it extremely well._ “Neither my father nor my uncle, nor myself, had any involvement in your injury. I am truly sorry that it happened” said Celebrimbor, his voice rising in defiance, "but I will not stand to be falsely accused." He was tired of being the target of suspicion, always watched and guarded. “I don’t have proof, but I can swear to having no knowledge of the incident, if you like.” His voice had gained a sarcastic edge, and he wondered if he would regret that later, but he kept on anyway. “I hear that both our houses place some amount of value on oaths, at least.”

“We are but one people” said Finrod, his voice growing stiff and cold. “Since you fled Himlad, may I remind you, Nargothrond has been your home. As long as Nargothrond is your home, you are under my protection. And trust me, in these wilds” he looked about them, squinting off into the quiet trees, “you might just need it.” He looked back at Celebrimbor, as though daring him to lie, and for a moment they stood there with their gazes locked together as the rain whispered in the leaves around them.

Celebrimbor could feel Finrod reaching for his mind again, and it took all his concentration to keep him out this time. “If I knew” he said, his voice shaking a little, “I would tell you.” He could feel the pressure in his head now, and he pushed back harder, he would not let him in, he would not… suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light behind his eyes, exploding in his skull. Instead of Finrod’s face, he was seeing darkness, trees outlined in silver, a great wolf, a fire burning in the night, his own father, bloodied and desperate and slashing out with his knife… there was pain, and screaming, stone, mud and rain and the taste of blood.

He saw a wounded wolf howling in the dark, before it was all eclipsed by that blinding white light, splintering his conciousness, burning him… then it was over as suddenly as it had begun, and he was stumbling against Finrod, who was holding out his arms to catch him. Celebrimbor’s breathing was ragged, his heart pounding, and as he looked up into Finrod’s face he saw concern, fear, as well as a flash of something else, something like rage, pain, _madness_ … but then it was gone, and Celebrimbor was not sure whether he had not imagined it in the first place. He realised that his hand had gone to the hilt of the dagger in its sheath, thrust through his belt under his tunic. He forced the hand down to his side and swallowed nervously, jerking away from Finrod a little too quickly. “I…” he caught his breath.

“Celebrimbor, what happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” What _had_ happened? Had he overshot and seen Finrod’s mind? Where those his memories? What did it mean? “I’m fine” he repeated, his mind racing. “May I have leave to return to Nargothrond now, my King?”

Finrod was running a hand through his hair distractedly, looking almost as disturbed as Celebrimbor felt. “Yes, yes, of course” he said quickly. “The guards will let you back in.”

“Aren’t you - ”

“I think I will stay here for a while” said Finrod, looking at the muddy ground and pacing backwards and forwards across the little clearing. He was running his fingers through his hair again, the rain making dark streaks in the gold. “Go. Leave me.”

“As you wish.” Giving a brief, awkward bow, Celebrimbor turned his back on Finrod and hurried from the clearing as fast as was seemly. It was beginning to rain heavily now, but he was barely aware of it as he half ran, half stumbled along the muddy forest track, drawing his dagger, his knuckles white on the hilt. His head pounded, his thoughts still churning, although mercifully Finrod was no longer trying to access them.

All he could think of was that light, that bright blinding light, and his father… he had seen his father, he was certain of it. What did it mean? He didn’t know, and he felt drained and dizzy, his thoughts clouded.

Maybe that was why he didn’t see it before it was upon him, something huge and heavy barrelling into his back. It knocked him forward onto the path, too shocked to even cry out before his mouth filled with mud. The knife was in his hand, but he could reach whatever it was. His other arm was pinned beneath him, twisted at a painful angle… when he felt the teeth, the claws, he screamed, the pain tearing through the very fibre of his being, blinding him. He kicked with as much force as he could muster, but its weight was too much, it was pressing him forwards into the soft cold mud. Then he was being rolled over onto his back, and the sight that met his eyes made him cry out all over again, his voice hoarse and painful now. A huge, golden wolf, its jaws reddened with blood, his own blood… he could feel himself growing weaker, even as he slashed out with the dagger, but in that moment the vision he had seen flashed through his mind. His father, slashing out with a dagger at great golden wolf. _Had it been his father? Or had it been himself?_ A cry that was half a laugh and half a scream of pain slipped from his mouth as his arm went wide, and the dagger was struck from his hand with a single, almost lazy swipe of a monstrous paw. Then it was lunging at his face, and before he could move or roll to the side, the world was crashing around him, splintering in a red haze of pain, before darkness swallowed him and he knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

“I just don’t think it was one of Gorthaur’s wolves” Celegorm was saying. “I think it would have… smelled diff - ” he broke off, walking into Curufin who had suddenly stopped on the path directly in front of him, just as the trees thinned leading them to a small clearing. “Ah! Curvo, what are you - ” He stopped too, eyes widening. In the centre of the clearing there was a shape, crumpled and broken-looking, tendrils of wet black hair trailing on the ground. There was a spreading stain of something dark pooling in the mud around it… then Curufin was running, stumbling over his own feet, falling to his knees beside the body, eyes white with fear. He cupped a cheek in his hand, turning the head to face them, tentatively, as if he did not want to see.

Celegorm drew in a sharp breath. _It could not be…_ “How…?” He placed a hand on Curufin’s shoulder, kneeling down beside him, but Curufin slapped his hand away, the blow stinging, meant to hurt. Curufin was muttering under his breath, a steady stream, almost an incantation, “no, no no… Tyelpë, can you hear me, no, Tyelpë, no it’s not real, it was just a dream, this isn’t real, Tyelpë, no…”

He cradled his son, rocking backwards and forwards a little on the muddy ground. His eyes were squeezed shut. Celebrimbor’s face was pale amid blood and blooming purple bruises, yet more blood running down his arm from great gashes in his chest, staining his limp, half-curled fingers.

Curufin looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, but there were no tears. His gaze was empty. “Findaráto will answer for this” he said quietly, through gritted teeth. “He did this.”

“You don’t know that.”

Curufin’s hands were fists, bunched in the blood-soaked fabric of his son’s tunic. The eight pointed star embroidered on his breast was slashed to piece, Celegorm saw. “I do. And so do you, brother.”

Celegorm’s mind spiralled, wild theories racing through his head. “I… Curvo…” Curufin ignored him. He had never seen his brother like this before. He knelt down, putting an arm around Curufin’s shoulders. He did not shrug it off, which disturbed Celegorm more than another slap would have. The blood seeped into both their cloaks, the cloth piled in the mud about their knees. Celegorm pulled his brother close to him, picking up his nephew’s hand and laying it down across his chest, so that it was not in the mud.

He started, picking up the hand again, frowning. Surely he had imagined… the flesh was so cold, the wounds mortal, catastrophic… _there_. Celegorm’s breath hitched in his chest. There it was again, a flicker of a pulse, faint but present. _Alive._

“Curvo.”

No response.

“Curvo, he’s still alive!”

“What?”

“His pulse! Look” Celegorm gingerly lifted his brother’s hand and placed two of his fingers on Celebrimbor’s wrist, watching those narrowed silver eyes. He saw them widen, Curufin’s head jerking back, just a little.

“We must get him to Nargothrond.”

“Curvo, are you sure that’s - ”

“These wounds, they are not…” Curufin frowned, standing up and scooping his unconscious son into his arms in a single smooth motion, as if he were still a child. “They are strange.”

It was true. He should be dead, by all normal standards of the word, Celegorm knew. There was even a gash across his throat, the spot where life could so easily drain out to be soaked up by the earth… he fidgeted uncomfortably, remembering Finrod’s bloody and broken body, seen through the eyes of the raven. _He too had clung to life. He too should be dead_. The thought made him uneasy for reasons he could not name.

“We will not be welcome there.”

“I know” said Curufin. “But if there is anyone in Nargothrond who can save him, I will _personally_ hold a knife to Findaráto’s throat until they have tried every damn herb and healing potion known to Eru himself, before I let my son die. Be sure of that, brother.”

Celegorm did not doubt it. He stood. “Here, let me help you with him.”

 

\------------

 

Finrod was sitting still and silent at the edge of his bed, head bowed, staring at his hands. There looked, he thought, much as they had always done. A nail was torn at the edge on the thumb of his right hand, and he picked at it restlessly, feeling the sharp sliver of pain go through his hand, watching as a tiny bead of blood grew from the spot, bright as a jewel.

There had been so much blood, but it had not been his own… his recollections were scant at best, the smell of the rain and the thrum of the drops on the branches, a wild rage rising in him from he knew not where. Wide silver eyes, for a moment too surprised even to show fear. Blood; his teeth, claws, covered in blood, silver fire rising in his own throat and mingling with its taste. Triumph, _this was what we was for, this was why he had been allowed to live, yes, this and nothing else…_

But something had happened then. The boy – no, he was not a boy, he had not been a boy for many years – had paused in his struggling, his fierce but useless stabbing and slashing at Finrod’s legs and face. For the briefest instant he had looked at him, their eyes catching as Celebrimbor’s head fell backwards, even as Finrod – no, the wolf - had lunged at his throat to attack, that pale face with eyes rolling back, slipping into unconsciousness… and Finrod, quite to his own surprise, had found himself swerving away, for in those eyes was something of who he was, or who he had been once, something that made the wolf’s concentration slip, sent his mind reeling in pain and confusion. Whining, he had bounded away through the forest, looking back for only long enough to see the crumpled dark form bleeding out its life into the mud of the forest floor, the rain washing it away. Something drove his legs into a loping, ceaseless running motion, some warring powers within him that he could not quite put a name to even if his mind had been clear enough to try. His thoughts were a whirl of trees, silver fire, his golden fur slick with mud and rain and blood.

He was almost expecting it when his legs had given out beneath him, his body splitting, stretching disturbingly. _It was just like the dream…_ only it hadn’t been a dream, he knew that now. And then his senses were fading back to their usual dullness, and he had been himself again, lying on the forest floor, curled into a ball like a child, the rags of the clothes he had been wearing that morning still about his shoulders and legs. He felt his hair mingling with the mud, and knew not whether the hot wetness in his eyes was tears or blood, or whether it was rainwater, heating to body temperature by his burning skin. He lay there for a long time, until the rain stopped and a deep, convulsive shivering seized his body, the heat leaching away from his flesh into the cold mud, leaving a chill that seemed to cut deep into him, gripping with cold fingers, making his breath come in gasps.

The journey back to Nargothrond had been a quick one, once he had realised where he was in the forest. He wondered vaguely whether the guards on the door would talk, for their King was soaked and covered in mud and the last vestiges of blood that the rain had not washed away onto the ground. But when he saw them shrink back into the shadows rather than meet his eyes, fear blooming across their faces, he decided they probably wouldn’t.

His rooms had been quite as he left them, disarmingly ordinary. He had sent for hot water and washed slowly, methodically, scrubbing roughly away at his skin until it glowed bright pink and sore before he was satisfied, brushing his hair to perfect golden smoothness and braiding it neatly, a little too tightly. He dressed, putting on an embroidered robe, heavy with beading and layers of silk, laughably stiff and formal for the day. Still it was not enough. Not enough to feel civilized, not enough to banish the memory of the forest, the wolf, of running on four legs, of the silver outlined trees and the blood in his mouth.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, urgent and insistent. Finrod started, getting to his feet to quickly, nearly tripping over. “Who is it?”

“Uncle, it’s me.”

Finrod sighed with relief. Orodreth. “Come in.”

His nephew looked flustered as he stood in the doorway, running restless fingers through unruly hair. His gaze was troubled. “You must come, and quickly. They’re asking for you. Demanding your presence.”

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Orodreth drew in a deep breath. “Celegorm and Curufin have returned.”

Finrod frowned, twisting his fingers together.

“…and…” added Orodreth, hesitating. “…and Celebrimbor.”

Finrod’s head jerked upwards.

“Uncle… he was found in the forest, like you. His injuries were… remarkably similar. The last time I saw him, he was bleeding badly, near death…” Orodreth was breathing quickly. “It was a lucky chance that your sister is still here. She’s trying to save him, but…” Orodreth spread his empty hands, his face pained.

Finrod’s mind worked furiously, even as he seized his royal circlet from the table by the bed, slipping on his shoes. _Now they will all know Celegorm and Curufin are not directly to blame for your injury. You will lose your leverage. They will know, they will know, they will…_

“Thank you for coming to get me so quickly.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Come.” He took Orodreth’s arm, setting his jaw grimly, and the two of them swept from the room.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The dark fortress had fallen quickly. Lúthien remembered that she had laughed when the stones had parted from each other, the screams of the cursed Maia rending the sky. It had almost been too easy too easy, she thought, as the spells her mother had taught her rose in her throat, heating her mouth as she spoke, as she sang. _You will sing the world to its knees some day my little one,_ Lúthien’s mother had told her, while braiding pale flowers into her hair. _You will break rocks and topple cities with your voice. You are strong_. And she was strong. The wolves had poured from the gates, flowing around her… one had bitten her as it ran past, lashing out in pain and fury, its teeth closing about her wrist. She had cried out then, and her loyal Huan had been there, as quick as that. They had all seen him fight; he only had to growl, and the wolf had fled, keening in terror.

The pain was little now, the wound bound up in a strip of linen torn from the hem of her dress to staunch the bleeding. She stood in the smoking ruins, her heart pounding with triumph. And yet, even as she looked on the destruction she had wrought, she felt a headache gathering at her temples, a bright white light starting to burn behind her eyes… Huan was jumpy, nervous. She frowned, giving her head a shake. There were more important things to concentrate on.

When she found Beren at last he was chained in the ruin of the dungeons. It was a grizzly scene; amid the broken rubble and dust there was a dead wolf, huge and bloodied and stinking, its corpse beginning to bloat with maggots. There were bones everywhere, cracked or scored by toothmarks, amorphous lumps of flesh still rotting on them. Heavy shackles were attached to the walls, or rather what had once been shackles. Some were torn from the stone, metal mangled and twisted. The floor was slippery with blood and filth. And there in the midst of it all was her Beren, curled in a corner. His face was hidden by a fall of filthy hair, but it was unmistakably him. And then she was at his side, her arms around him, pressing him closed to her…

“Ti- Tinúviel?” His voice was cracked with pain, full of disbelief. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

A tiny laugh escaped her, and she found there were tears on her face, tears of relief as their foreheads touched. “Yes my love. Yes it’s me. I’ve come to get you out.”

She kissed him, and when she drew back he was grinning lopsidedly. “Of course you had to destroy the entire fortress to do it.”

“I would destroy a thousand fortresses for you.” She meant it. “I would destroy the world for you.”

He simply stared at her, wonder in his face, and love so raw it cut at her heart. “You’re hurt” he said at last, concerned.

“It was just a little scratch. One of the wolves. Huan drove it away.”

A spasm of fear flashed across his face.

“Don’t worry!” she said. “I’m fine. Look.” She unwound the bandage. “It’s already stopped bleeding."

He seemed a little reassured, at least. “If you say so.”

She pulled Angrist from her belt. “Let’s get you out of these shackles first. Then how would you like to go hunting for a Silmaril?”

 

\----------

 

“Artanis…” Celegorm gritted his teeth, steeling himself for what he was about to say. Curufin stood beside him with Celebrimbor’s limp body cradled in his arms, pale eyes burning in agony, in tortured desperation. “Artanis. You have the skill to heal him. You must help him. I know the hatred you bear for our house, but Celebrimbor is innocent. You must - ”

“Celegorm” she interrupted coolly, “I am not one to let anyone die simply because of a grudge I bear. I am sorry you think me capable of such… vindictive behaviour.”

Celegorm ground his teeth. “Just heal him.”

She looked worn as her eyes ran over Celebrimbor’s wounds. “I cannot promise - ”

“Please” said Curufin suddenly, the word ringing loud in the stone passageway. His voice sounded strangled, pained, as if every word cut at his throat. “Please save him.”

Their cousin gave him a long look. Suddenly she was shouting to the servants standing by. “Prepare a bed, bring me hot water, clean linen, any healing herbs you can find…” she broke off, muttering under her breath, “…fresh athelas would be best, but it’s the wrong time of year…” the servants were hurrying to obey her orders and she led the brothers hastily from the door. A pallet appeared, born by two servants, and Celegorm helped his brother to lay Celebrimbor down upon it. Curufin’s lips were white.

The room was emptied of all but a few servants, bringing in bowls of boiling water to lay beside the bed. _Whose room was it?_ Celegorm found himself wondering. _Or who's room had it once been?_ There were instruments on the bedside table, a tiny, sharp silver knife, a pair of what looked like pincers, many sizes of needles, and a vast array of jars and bottles. Galadriel was washing her hands in a basin, her golden hair bound back from her face. “Melian has more supplies, if I had known that so much healing would be required of me in Nargothrond I should have brought more…” she sounded distracted, but as though she had quite forgotten who her patient was and her hatred for the line of Fëanor. _Perhaps that was what being a healer does to one_ , thought Celegorm somewhere in the recesses of his churning mind. He was tempted to ask her who else she had had to heal whilst in Nargothrond, but thought better of it.

She began to peel back the ruined remains of the outside of Celebrimbor’s tunic. Curufin watched, his mouth a hard line and his eyes burning, standing absolutely still at the foot of the bed. Celegorm paced the edges of the room, feeling useless and wretchedly nervous. He was as well acquainted with the sight of blood as well as any, but the bright red ruin that was his nephew’s chest and throat drew his gaze and simultaneously sickened him.

Galadriel looked up at the brothers. “It would be better if you left the room” she said at last.

Curufin’s face grew stormy. “No. I will not simply - ”

“Curvo.” Celegorm had to acknowledge that she was right. “We are only in the way here.” He tried to make his voice as even as he could, but even he heard the crack in it as the anger threatened to spew from him and he pushed it back, the red rage rising up behind his eyes. Celegorm wanted to break something, to kick the door down and run through the forest with Huan at his side until his breath came in sharp bursts and his throat was raw and the night had come. But Huan was gone, and Celebrimbor was dying and the pain that burned across Curufin’s usually inscrutable carven marble face left him more disturbed than he could say. There eyes locked for a moment before Curufin let out a short breath through his nose and gave Galadriel a curt nod. Then, casting a last glance at his son’s pale face, he led Celegorm from the room.

Celegorm did not know how much time went by as they waited, pacing in the corridor outside. He measured the time in servants entering and leaving, bearing fresh bowls of steaming water and sprigs of herbs. He averted his eyes as they left with blood-soaked cloths. After what seemed like days of catching his brother’s eye and looking away again, trying to regulate his own breathing, the door opened and a young healer motioned for them to enter.

The room smelled sharp and herbal, soothing almost, but for the slight, pervasive iron tang of blood that overlaid it all. Galadriel did not look up at them as they entered. Celebrimbor’s wounds were swathed in bandages now, his eyes still closed, his body entirely still but for the slight, laboured rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. His skin had been washed clean of blood and mud, and he seemed even paler than Celegorm had thought possible, glowing grey-white in the harsh light of the lampstones.

Their cousin’s hand was on his forehead, her eyes closed, and she muttered a steady stream of words under her breath, power crackling at the edges of her voice. It was a strange power, dark as the shadows of twilight, and yet, somehow, it was a quiet darkness, filling the room with a healing calm that even caused Curufin to release a little of the tension in his whitened knuckles. _Melian’s spells_ , thought Celegorm uncomfortably. Finally, Celegorm saw a tiny fluttering of his nephew’s eyes behind his closed lids, his breath becoming a little less shallow. _Alive._ Galadriel opened her eyes and drew back, but there was only puzzlement on her face.

Curufin made his way haltingly to his son’s side, placing a tentative hand to cup that pale cheek. Celegorm had never seen Curufin’s quick, clever hands move with anything other than the utmost resolve and precision. “Tyelpë?” said Curufin, his voice quiet and deliberately flat, full of determination not to allow himself to hope. The silence expanded around them, pressing into Celegorm’s ears.

“How fares he?” he asked Galadriel, if only to fill that awful void, that held breath.

She frowned. “He clings stubbornly to life. I do not know why or how, with those wounds, but somehow…" she shook her head. "Honestly? He should be dead.”

“He’s not though” said Curufin, his voice brittle, his face blotchy grey.

“No” she replied, and there was a hint of a question in her voice. “And you don’t know what - ”

“Do you think I would not tell you if I did?” Curufin almost snarled the words.

“There are wolves in the woods” ventured Celegorm. “One attacked us, when we were out hunting. Perhaps - ”

“No mere wolf did this” said Galadriel. “His _fëa_... it wanders, I don’t know what to make of it. Almost it reminds me of - ” but whatever she had been about to say was cut off as the door burst open. There stood Finrod, regarding the scene before him, face twisting with… _what?_ Anger seemed to play across that fair face, and fear and hatred, and something that might have been relief, Celegorm judged, although that was not quite right either. Orodreth was at Finrod’s side, his quick eyes darting between Celebrimbor and the three who stood by his bedside.

“Ingo, they - ” began Galadriel, but then Curufin was rounding on Finrod, his eyes narrowing, sparking with hatred.

“ _You._ You did this.”

“I - ” Finrod spread his hands.

Curufin did not let him finish. “You think that we wanted power here; this I will not deny to be the truth, for your people were crying out for a new lord, a new king, someone without your foolish sentimentalism - ”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “Sentimentalism? We all must keep our oaths, cousin.”

Celegorm ground his teeth, longing to get his hands on Finrod, to bloody that mouth that had even now settled back into a calm and indulgent smile, but as he moved forward, Curufin extended an arm to hold Celegorm back. Curufin’s face was composed, a small, dangerous smile playing about his lips, but his eyes burned like fever. “You ever were a fool, but a vengeful fool I did not expect. Yes, we wanted power here. It was too easy to seize it, what with you on your hopeless little quest to fulfil your oath to a mere mortal… tell me, on what did you swear, Ingoldo?”

Finrod frowned at the name on Curufin’s lips. “On my life and honour, and the honour of my house.”

“Ah” sneered Curufin. “Honour. Of course it was always about honour for you. A Silmaril for your brave mortal you thought, a Silmaril to help him win his bride. Yet honour cannot doom one to - ”

“Curufin, stop” said Galadriel, steel and power in her voice, but Curufin did not heed her.

“If honour was to be your life’s goal, then I am afraid, my golden King” he gave a mocking bow, “that honour was to be your undoing.”

“You don’t need to tell me that you tried to usurp the throne of Nargothrond, cousin” said Finrod quietly. “I am well aware of that. I suspected you would try before I left, if I am to be honest.”

“Good” spat Curufin. “Every word that comes out of that mouth of yours makes me more certain that you planned this” he gestured towards where his son was lying. “And that, in its turn - ” he was standing close to Finrod now, their faces aligned, eye to eye. Finrod was a little taller, but Curufin’s quiet voice crackled with threat, with _menace_ , causing the other to step back a little. “ - gives me a reason to _destroy_ _you_.”

Finrod did not even blink. “Have a care how you speak, cousin. Within my walls, you can do me no harm.”

Curufin’s laugh was a broken thing. “Ha! Of course. Ever the one to hide behind the trappings of your power. Ever a golden-hearted, honourable coward.”

Finrod’s face twisted with contempt. “And you? Slayer of kin unrepentant. So desperate to be a poor copy of your father that you would happily send me to my certain death at the merest chance that I might get near one of your accursed jewels. And then on top of that you would seize on the slightest opportunity to steal a throne, like the carrion-bird you are.” He laughed too then, a wild and terrible sound, too harsh in the silence that had fallen. “I can’t say I’m at all surprised.”

Celegorm felt a growl rising, low in his throat, but Finrod continued blithely. “You can perhaps then see why it was easy enough to go along with what everyone else concluded, which was that me turning up in the forest, wounded and unconscious, was your doing. It is what I would have assumed in the circumstances. Eru, you probably would have done anyway, it if given the chance.”

Orodreth frowned. “Wait… you mean to say that was not… then who… what…?”

Galadriel was staring intently at Finrod, but he was not looking at her. They all followed his gaze to where Celerimbor lay, his chest, neck and arms swathed in bandages.

For a moment Curufin was too stunned to move. Then, quick as a striking snake, he was drawing his sword in a single fluid motion, seizing the front of Finrod’s tunic and pushing him forcefully against the wall, the point of the sword glinting at his throat. A bead of bright blood grew there. Orodreth moved to go his uncle’s aid, but Celegorm grasped his arm, pulling him roughly back until he cried out. Galadriel simply watched, her bright eyes narrowed and far away as if she were lost in thought, her mind furiously turning over and discarding possiblities.

“You did this, I know you did” hissed Curufin, their faces almost close enough to touch. “And I will find out how, and I will bring you down for it. Never doubt that for a moment. Kinslayer, you call me. What will they call you, I wonder?”

The question hung in the air unanswered, and after a moment Curufin drew back, wiping the flat of the sword’s point on Finrod’s pale blue sleeve with a sneer of disgust before pushing his cousin away from him forcefully.

The room was silent for a long frozen instant. But what may have happened next, Celegorm would never know, for at that moment the door burst open and there was a breathless guardsman there, eyes wide with fear. He dropped a hasty bow.

“King Felagund! You are called for.”

Finrod had collected himself quickly it seemed; but for the smear of blood in the hollow of his throat he may have been calmly discussing the weather only moments before. His voice was smooth. “What has happened?”

“Gorthaur has fallen. His wolves have been turned loose in the forest. They are on their way to Nargothrond!”


	7. Chapter 7

Lúthien paced. _It is always me left behind._ _My whole life I am being left behind. I was the one who felled the Dark One, was I not?_ She gritted her teeth. All she had wanted was to be there on the hunt with her father, with Beren. _Without her or Melian they are vulnerable, fragile, Beren particularly so… he has only one hand now, and his mortal body is so breakable, so easily torn and slow to heal._ She wished Galadriel were here to talk to, but she had gone as an envoy to Nargothrond some time ago. Lúthien frowned, trying to focus her mental powers, closing her eyes and trying to breath slowly, the better to catch a glimpse of events in the forest where they hunted Carcharoth, or better still, of the future.

She concentrated for a long time, retreating inside her own mind. Finally wisps of light began to appear behind her eyes, colours floating across her vision. She let herself relax, and the colours began to gain substance, to form recognizable shapes… she concentrated harder, straining into the corners of her mind; she had not had to do this for a long while, and one got out of practice. She pushed at the colours, a little harder, a little brighter… that was when it happened. Too late she realised that there was something _else_ there, pushing back at her, but now she felt it yield, breaking her concentration, sending her spiraling… there was a blinding flash of silver-white light, _too_ bright, and a searing pain in her bandaged wrist. Suddenly she could see the room around her clearly again, instead of the whisps of the vision, but everything looked different, picked out in silver outlines that burned in the darkness.

Something was happening to her body too, as her mind scrabbled for control to no avail. Lúthien felt as though she were tearing, her flesh splitting down the middle… in her head she was screaming, _mother, where are you mother, something is happening to me, help me…_ but her voice would not work, or the voice that came from her mouth was not hers. It was not even words at all but a long, howling cry that echoed off the stone vault of her room. Suddenly, she was on all fours and she knew not what was real and what was only in her head, for she seemed to have _paws_ , covered in sleek black fur… even amidst the storm in her head, horrified recognition bloomed in her, fuelling her panic.

And then, Lúthien caught sight of a tall figure framed in the doorway. Its dark silhouette looked only roughly like that of an elf now, seeming to grow in height, to become impossibly tall, elongated, long dark hair floating in the air as if under water. The torchlight from the corridor behind looked white in her altered vision, but the figure was dark, a bite out of the light, seeming to consume it. She could make out no features but its eyes which burned dark purple, whirlpools that drew her in. The figure did not speak with a voice, but Lúthien felt its words reverberate through her; _No. Begone. You cannot have my daughter._

For a moment powerful forces fought for control within Lúthien, struggling with each other and threatening to tear her apart… then the bright white light behind her eyes was fading, the pain in her receding, and her legs gave out as she was wracked by trembling sobs. She felt herself falling to the floor, limp and boneless, but before she could touch the ground her mother’s warm arms were around her, holding her, stroking her hair. Melian was back in her usual form now, soft and smelling of lilac and night air and pine, their hair mingling as she pulled Lúthien to her as if to never let her go.

“Oh my child, my brave little bird” whispered Melian into Lúthien’s hair as her daughter dampened the shoulder of her dress with tears that flowed freely now, “you’re safe now. It’s sleeping. You’re safe. I will not let it hurt you.”

Lúthien’s breath caught in her throat. “Mother… forgive me, I don’t know what…” she tailed off, fear rising inside her as she stared at the half-healed bite at her wrist, the pain still pulsing gently. “What is happening to me, Mother?” she couldn’t keep the desperation entirely out of her voice.

Melian kissed her on the brow and took both of Lúthien’s hands in hers. Then she began to gently unwind the bandage at Lúthien’s wrist. Lúthien started, for the wound appeared to have healed, impossibly quickly and without the hint of a scar, although the pain was still there. “But… that’s not possible. There was…”

Melian sighed deeply. “It is as I feared, my dear one.”

Lúthien’s eyes widened. “What? What is it?”

For a while Melian did not speak. “I will have to tell you a story first.” She said at last. “It is a true story, but a sad one.”

Lúthien stared at her mother, lost. “Tell me.”

Melian gave her daughter a long look. “Once upon a time,” she began, and Lúthien felt like a little girl again. Her mother had always had the best stories, full of beautiful things from when the world was young. “The elder Children lived on the shores of Cuiviénen. They loved their families, and they walked under the stars and did not fear the darkness. But sometimes…” a cloud gathered aross her face. “Sometimes, once in a generation, a son or a daughter was born who was different, who had… special abilities.”

“Like what?”

“It was different for each. Some could hear others’ thoughts, and this is where that skill amongst those born today is can be traced back to. Some could glimpse what the future may bring, reflected in smooth water perhaps, or among shifting clouds. Their power was small, but useful for all that, at times, and their people loved them for it. Then there were those who could change their forms.” A tiny frown appeared on Melian’s smooth brow. “There were some born who could slip into the form of one of Yavanna’s creatures. An owl, a hare, a kraken, an eagle… there were many. People loved the shapeshifters, loved to watch little merchildren play in the waters of the great lake, loved to see a girl who could change into a bird and soar through the sky. And as time went by, it became apparent that they could pass the skill on to their own children. The wolves were the best known, the largest and proudest family of shapeshifters. As the population on the shores of the lake grew, groups sprang up, little communities… the wolves were well-loved in their village, and grew in numbers and influence, more than any other. But then the darkness came.”

Lúthien’s eyes were wide. “Melkor?”

Melian nodded. “Yes. The great shadow that fell over Cuiviénen stole away many an innocent before the bright ones came to take them to safety in the blessed realm.” Melian’s face was pained now. “He took them… twisted and tortured them, bound them to his will with fire and pain and cruel spells that cut like knives if they should stray from his service, in action or even in thought. After a few generations, this tortured life of slavery was all they knew. But it did not end there. The enemy quickly found out about the shapeshifters, and saw their... potential. Of course he did.” She grimaced, her voice bitter. “One day, quite by accident, a little wolf girl was walking alone in the forest, when she was...  _taken._ It was the start of a long and cruel process, a project he gave to his lieutenant Gorthaur the cruel, whose fortress you toppled, my sweet one” she kissed Lúthien’s cheek, “the wolves were… experimented on, others were captured, they were bred, as though they were animals only. Gorthaur was charged to make them stronger, to turn them into machines for killing, with no free will of their own, teeth and claws hat would rip throats at his master’s bidding. And so he did.” Melian looked immeasureably sad, “but they were changed by it. They were treated like animals, so they grew to the point where they would hardly stay in the original forms, because it hurt too much. To this day, few are certain whether they even can remain in the forms of the elder Children, save at the cost of terrible pain. They do not speak, but burn with the cold white fire that the cruel one force-fed them, back when their ancestors were taken. Their forcibly bred descendants are the same in that sense, but they have become... something else entirely.”

Lúthien was horrified. “You mean…”

“I mean that… one of the traits that Gorthaur was charged with imbuing them with was the ability to pass on their… condition… with a bite alone.” Melian grimaced, running a finger across Lúthien’s wrist. “It seems in that at least, he succeeded.”

There was a long silence. Finally Lúthien spoke, her voice quiet and brittle. “What… what happened to the other shapeshifters? The ones left back at Cuiviénen?”

Melian did not seem surprised at the change of subject. Her face grew sad again. “Some of their distant descendants live amongst the elder Children still, on both sides of the sea, although the power is lessened now. Sometimes it manifests itself as an ability to know the minds of animals, to share their thoughts. True shape-shifting is rare, if it exists at all.”

Lúthien swallowed, unsure if she wanted to hear more, but knowing she had to. “Why is that?”

“The others… their villages turned on them” said Melian shortly. “When the wolves of Gorthaur were first turned loose to go about their killing, the shapeshifters were feared by the other Children. There was hysteria… no one trusted their neightbour. Rumours were rife. The shapeshifters were hunted through the forest… forced to vanish deep amongst the trees, to become elusive and distrustful, if they were to live. The others… well, some shapeshifters were not so lucky. I did not think it prudent to say it at the time, but the massacre of your uncle’s people at Alqualondë was most certainly not the first slaying of the elder Children of Ilúvatar at each other’s hands.”

“Mother, how do you know all this?”

“I spent much time in these forests, under the stars, before I met your father, and then with him.” Her face was wistful, her eyes far away. “I got to know the forest and its secrets, things that my kin across the sea never knew. I loved the twilight, and eventually its inhabitants came to trust me, and came to me out of the dark. I gave them some scant measure of healing, in return for their stories. It was not enough though. Pity them, my dear one, for it will never be enough. And the ones that Gorthaur took are beyond even my help.”

Lúthien stared at her own hands. “Mother…” she said at last. “What does it mean… for me?”

Melian sighed. “I do not know, as yet.” She turned Lúthien’s hands over. “It may well be that you have the original shapeshifting power, but I do not think you will escape the pain that Gorthaur gave to those imbued with it artificially. But in truth? I do not know how the wolf will show itself in you, my daughter.” She sounded so sorrowful that Lúthien’s felt her heart squeeze in her chest.

“I felt… powerful” said Lúthien tentatively, after a while. “There was pain, yes, but I think… with practice… I could master that silver light.”

Melian looked at her sharply. “It may well be that if anyone can, then you can. You are unprecedented, my dear child, in more ways than one. You are strong… sometimes, I have heard, the power destroys those who are converted to it even as it takes them, burning them away to nothing. And yet you endured.”

“You intervened though” Lúthien pointed out.

“If I had not I do not know what would have happened. The spells I wove into the girdle began to react to you as soon as the dormant wolf rose, which may have been the primary cause of the pain” she cupped Lúthien’s cheek. “I had to undo them in this room, temporarily. But I am sorry if I caused you pain, my child.”

“No” said Lúthien, distractedly. “But what if… mother, what if I _could_ master it?”

Melian frowned. “Then you would be strong indeed… but that is a big _if_ , my child.”

Lúthien thought of Beren, and of her father, out hunting the great mad hound inside whose belly rested the Silmaril, driving him into a bloody fury… _I could be their salvation. I could end this. I am strong._ She set her jaw in determination. “I will master it. I must.”

 

\------

 

They had laid their trap well, Beren had thought; they were careful, their guard was fast. Carcharoth would never escape with his life.

And yet, even as the thought was passing through his head like a litany once more as he stood beside Thingol, a dark, hulking shape was bursting forth from the forest gloom, smashing the silence and sending birds exploding from the trees. Beren cried out, he thought, but his voice was a thin, weak thing, and late, far too late… his body acted of its own accord. Barelling into Thingol, he gave the king a shove that sent him sprawling out of the way of the great hound, onto the forest floor. Beren stabbed out with his spear; but the balance felt wrong, he was using the wrong hand... even as he cut at the hound he was preparing himself to feel jaws closing about his throat.

Carcharoth’s weight slammed him backwards against the ground with terrible force. There were teeth at his chest, those stinking, salivating jaws, the awful burning eyes, and he was going to die, there was no escape this time, for Lúthien was not here… he gave silent thanks for that at least. She was safe. She would live on. He closed his eyes, for if he were to die, he would die picturing her face. It was thus a moment before he registered that the crushing weight of the hound was no longer compressing his chest. His legs were free too, and its jaws were no longer poised to tear his flesh. He looked up. Huan had burst from the thicket, and the two hounds were locked together, fighting ferociously, their motions so quick and savage that their tangled limbs and tails and flashing teeth seemed but a blur to Beren. Blood bloomed, but which hound’s blood had been spilled, he could not tell.

But then, before he could speak or even get to his feet, another shape was bursting out of the gloom. Another hound, or a wolf perhaps, but it seemed somehow different… its coat was black, shining and sleek, and the howl it made was unearthly, like nothing he had ever heard before, terrible and beautiful all at once. And yet, he realised in wonder, it _did_ remind him of… but he did not have time to take that thought to its conclusion, for suddenly one of the three fighters was falling limp and dead at the feet of the other two. _Carcaroth_. The wolf fell heavy and dead, bleeding from the throat, the strange new wolf’s muzzle slick with blood, gleaming against night black fur. Beren did not allow his heart to lift though, for there was still the other wolf to deal with…

But then the elegant black wolf was licking a wound on Huan’s flank, and Huan was wagging his tail, and even as Beren watched, something impossible was happening, something that his mind could not comprehend even as his eyes took in the sight. The wolf was _changing_ , black fur splitting down the middle to reveal smooth skin, a shock of tangled hair as black as the wolf’s coat had been.

And finally, there she stood, her bright body outlined against the darkening forest, fire in her eyes and blood on her face and hands. Thingol’s eyes were wide with shock, but Lúthien stood proud, looking extremely satisfied with herself. She gave Huan’s ears a scratch and nodded at each of them. “Hello Beren. Father.” She gestured at the dead hound behind her. “You have your Silmaril.”

 

\---------

 

“You did well, sweet one” said Melian later, laying a gentle hand on Lúthien’s arm to quell her restless pacing. Huan prowled at Lúthien’s heels, hackles raised. They were in Thingol’s solar; the king himself sat at the table, cupping the Silmaril between his hands and staring at it intently. Beren stood back a little, looking unsure of whether he was in fact supposed to be there. When Lúthien did not respond, Melian continued, “no one else has been known to learn to master the wolf, not of those who were… later infected with it. The original shapeshifters would have been able to of course, but they are long gone. The ability will stand you in good stead.” Melian looked proud. “As I said before, you are unprecedented. Unique.”

Lúthien frowned. “Mother, what if…” she looked at Beren, who was watching her intently, worry in his eyes. She touched her wrist. “Beren, did the wolf… did it… did it bite you?”

“No, it never reached me. It was dark, it had killed all of our band, and then I heard it go for Felagund, and he was fighting it. I thought he was surely dead, but when the walls came down I saw that it was the wolf that was dead, and he had gone.” Beren stared at her, his eyes suddenly going wide. “You don’t think…”

Lúthien was lost in thought. “I saw him” she said at last. “In the forest. He was a wolf, Beren, a great golden wolf, and he was attacking Celegorm and Curufin… that was what allowed me to escape them.”

“Ha! Serves them right! Are they dead, do you think?”

Lúthien gave Beren a quelling look and was about to reply when Melian broke in, her voice urgent. “Almost certainly. But the issue here is a much larger one; Felagund will not be able to control the wolf. He was born in the blessed realm, in the light of the Trees, which may help… she twisted her hands in front of her thoughtfully, “…but you my daughter, even you could not control it when it first rose. You only mastered it so quickly because my blood makes you strong. You are an exception, not the rule. We must for now assume that there is a rogue wolf, in terrible agony, loose in the forest.”

Beren hesitated. “He would go back to Nargothrond” he said at last, his voice full of pain. “And once there…”

“He would bite many. It would spread, unchecked, and the result would be a slaughter.”

There was a long silence.

Finally Thingol spoke. “I will not lead Doriath’s people to their aid. I cannot draw them into this, only to have them die bloody deaths. Do not ask me to.”

“I wasn’t going to, Father” said Lúthien. She went to him and stood behind his chair, leaning her chin against his shoulder as she had done when she was a little girl. She motioned towards the Silmaril, and he placed it reverently in her hand. Lúthien gazed at it appraisingly, turning it backwards and forwards, letting its light play across her face.

“No” she whispered. “I have a better idea.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Secure the outer gate, and the postern gates. Put extra guards on the side doors to the forest. Not that the wolves should know them, but Gorthaur had many prisoners, so it’s entirely possible…” Finrod seemed to be thinking out loud as he strode out into the corridor as Galadriel watched, giving orders as he walked. “…and it’s best to prepare for the worst.” He took hold of Orodreth’s arm. “Seal the caves. No one enters or leaves until this threat has passed, do you understand?”

Orodreth nodded grimly and hurried away with the guardsman to prepare the defences. Curufin was still fuming, a poisonous look in his silver eyes. Galadriel laid a hand on his arm, trying to filter her power into him, to touch his mind and calm him, for it would not do anyone any good if the resentment between him and Finrod were to erupt now. But he only wrenched his arm away from her, shutting his mind as he did so. His eyes never left Celebrimbor. Celegorm shot her a warning look and she glared back at him.

“There’s nothing more any of us can do for him now” Galadriel told Curufin, following his gaze. “Sleep and healing is all that will help him now, and once the threat to Nargothrond has passed I will send someone to check on him. I would _suggest_ \- ” she placed her hand back on his forearm and began to steer him firmly towards the door “ – that you go and do your bit for the defences. You will do him no good by lingering here, either of you.”

The sons of Fëanor wore matching expressions of hatred, and for a moment Galadriel thought they would argue with her, but then Celegorm caught Curufin’s gaze and nodded slightly. After that they allowed her to shepherd them from the room, pausing in the corridor outside.

She gave a sigh. “I will order a guard to posted at the door if it makes you happier. Not that it will do much good if Nargothrond is taken, but - ”

Curufin rounded on her. “And who, pray, will protect him from the guard?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you’re still convinced that someone tried to have your son _murdered,_ and that I am in league with the dastardly plotter” she gave him a little mocking smile, her patience fraying, “then I would ask you to question why I agreed to heal him.”

“Oh, believe me cousin, I certainly have been questioning that.” His voice was cutting. “I have considered it at length, I promise you.”

“Ah yes, and as we all know so well the sons of Fëanor always keep their promises.” He looked as though he was trying hard not to hit her, but she pretended not to see, “at any rate, I suggest you take it up with my brother instead. Once he’s finished dealing with the enemy at our gates.”

Grinding his teeth, Curufin tore his gaze away from her, seizing Celegorm by the arm. They both swept away down the corridor without a second glance, leaving Galadriel on her own.

When she was alone in her room she put on her armour, suddenly glad that she had brought it in case there were dangers on the road from Doriath. As she did so, she thought about what she had learned. There was something larger going on here, and she felt the picture swimming into focus in her mind, all the pieces coming together… she thought about the wolves of Gorthaur. When released from their master’s fortress at his fall, why should they all converge on Nargothrond? Were the reports true? They only had the guard’s word to go on. But if it _were_  true… she frowned. _First Finrod had escaped, somehow, from Gorthaur’s dungeon. Celegorm and Curufin had been hunting in the forest at the time. Then Finrod had turned up broken and bloodied, and by all rights dead, in the forest near Nargothrond, with no memory of what had come between._

It _could_ have been the sons of Fëanor, certainly. They were surely capable of such a thing, and Finrod’s return to Nargothrond would place them in a situation that was at best uncomfortable and at worst extremely dangerous, even deadly; yes, she thought, they had ample _reason_ to kill him quietly in the forest. It would even have been easy for them to make it look like an accident. But that was the thing; he had lived, and she could see no reason why they would have allowed that, if such a thing were true. And those wounds of his, they were strange… they had been made by no blade, save for the dagger slash above his eye. Perhaps Huan…? But she dismissed this immediately, certain that the hound would not harm her brother. And Huan was not even with the sons of Fëanor. _Question upon question. Something is strange in this picture. Something is wrong._ She returned to running over the timeline in her head. _Then, sometime later, Celebrimbor turns up in the forest, his injuries remarkably similar to Finrod’s._ Curufin’s son, she knew, was the only thing that could have brought the brothers back to Nargothrond.

She wished that she had been able to see into her brother’s mind or Celebrimbor’s. Finrod had set up a wall against her, which she only perceived as a roiling, swirling white light when she tried to access his thoughts. She had not asked why. Even the two of them, close as they were, had always allowed the other their secrets. But then, just now in the healing room, when she had tried to enter Celebrimbor’s thoughts, she had seen that same white light. It was almost blinding this time, whipped into a whirling tempest by pain and his struggle to cling to life. She had realised then that the barrier Finrod had set up was surely not of his own making, for here it was, just the same, in another, and one who lay unconscious too. People’s thoughts had their own patterns, individual flavours that were as unique as the whorls on the fingertips, and the two cases had been too similar to be natural. She was certain that whatever had spilled Finrod’s blood and brought him almost to the edge of death (but kept him stubbornly on the brink) had done the same to Celebrimbor. _And in that case, how could the sons of Fëanor possibly be to blame?_

The recognition had hit her with explosive force as she was bandaging Celebrimbor’s wounds, but she had kept silent in front of her cousins, thinking to speak to Finrod later. But now he was gone again, seeing to the defenses against the enemy’s wolves… she frowned, buckling her sword to her hip, and pausing for only a moment before striding from the room to find her brother.

\---------

Finrod could hear himself shouting orders, preparing Nargothrond’s defences, could feel the very air in the caves crackling with apprehension, rumours flying about as guards rushed back and forth, parting like a tide around him. And yet he was not really _there_ ; his mind was far away, churning with pain and confusion even as he paced restlessly.

There had been a moment back there, a moment when Curufin had pressed the point of a bright blade to his throat… in that moment he had felt it begin to _rise_. The thing inside him, burning silver with anguish and blinding hatred. _The wolf._ It had been so close to the surface then, and he had clung to the edge of sanity, biting down on his lip as the boiling, furious silver threatened to subsume him. He had pushed it down, barely, for Curufin had been pulled back, and the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. But it had taken so much _effort_ , nearly rending his mind and body in two… and it had taken such a brief instant, a mere split second to bring it to the surface to start with, the sudden threat to his life, a surprise attack. And in another instant all could have been blood and carnage, for he could not control it, he did not know how… Finrod swallowed hard, tried to breathe more slowly. He stared at his hands once more, clenching and unclenching his fingers, slippery with cold sweat. _It cannot happen again. It must not._  

\----------

The entrance hall bustled with activity, guards helping to shift great wooden struts across the outer doors, strengthening them. With a sudden flash of forboding, Galadriel caught site of Finrod and Orodreth facing the sons of Fëanor, taking animatedly. She was too far away to see their faces or hear  what they were saying, but she barely needed to. She hurried down the stairs, barely dodging a guard in her haste.

“And how do we know” Celegorm was saying, suspicion in his eyes “that the wolves really are attacking? Not so long ago the wolves ran free in the forest. Why should they rally now? And who would they rally _to_ , with their master gone?”

“Why don’t you tell me, since you seem to know so much about it” spat Finrod.

“If you’re implying – ”

Curufin placed a quelling hand on Celegorm’s elbow. “It seems to me” he said, his voice back now to its usual silken purr, filled with danger just beneath the surface, “that we might ask you the same question. You are, after all, the one who spent an inordinate amount of time in Gorthaur’s dungeon, and managed to leave it with your life. One may begin to wonder how you did that.”

Finrod opened his mouth, fury igniting in his gaze, but Curufin did not let him speak. “And then you order the doors to be closed. Very useful, I am sure, for keeping wolves out, whether the threat is a real one or not. Also useful for keeping people in” - he looked at Celegorm - “that you would rather did not leave” - he looked pointedly back at Finrod - “for your own reasons.”

“You’re very full of accusations” said Orodreth. “I would be watching my step, if I were you.”

Celegorm sneered. “You’re not very good at making threats, little mouse. How about you - ”

“How about we _all_ stop making threats” - Galadriel glared at Celegorm – “and focus on the real threat to us all?”

The look Curufin gave her could have punched through an inch of plate steel, but Galadriel withstood it. “As you wish” he said, his voice mild. “We are in your debt for saving my son, after all. But I see we are no longer welcome here, and we have other concerns” - he gritted his teeth - “that are more important than this place.” He gestured around the hall, derisively. “When my son is able we will take him and leave for Himring.”

Finrod gave Curufin a long, calculating look. Then his mouth twitched into a slight, improbable smile, and he looked down as though to stifle laughter at some private jest.

“Something _funny_?” snarled Celegorm.

“No… it’s just…” he looked at Curufin again. “You seem very certain your son will _want_ to come with you.”

Curufin looked as though he had been slapped, his face draining of all colour, but Finrod carried on, not dissuaded, pacing about before the sons of Fëanor as Galadriel watched. “It seems to me that Celebrimbor swore no Oath. Do you not think it cruel to drag the poor boy into it any further than he is already? Especially after what happened to him?”

“He’s not a boy anymore.”

“I am quite aware of that, cousin” said Finrod mildly. “Past time you let him choose his own way, don’t you think?”

Curufin spoke through gritted teeth. “And you think he would choose you over me, over our family, do you?”

Finrod spread his hands, almost apologetic. “Who can say? He was never _given_ that choice.”

 _What are you doing, brother? Be careful_ , Galadriel tried to desperately think at Finrod, screaming it inside her head, but his mind was still resolutely closed to her, opaque.

“It is true my son swore no Oath” Curufin’s tone was icy, dangerous. “But that only means that his loyalty comes through the honour of the charge dealt to us, and of his devotion to our house.”

Finrod shrugged. “I just thought perhaps it would be… _kinder_ … to let him stay here. Should he want to.” His voice was gentle. “Besides, I would not say _family_ loyalty is the greatest of the concerns of the house of Fëanor” he raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Curufin, although his voice was still neutral. “Or do you deny now that you sent me off to die and thought to claim my kingdom for your own?”

“Stop changing the subject.” Celegorm's voice was a growl.

Finrod’s mouth began to curl into a smile at the edges. “Then there is the matter of Huan finally seeing sense…”

He did not get any further. Celegorm was coming at him, quick as a striking snake, fury in his eyes and a sword suddenly in his hands. His blade was at Finrod’s throat; Galadriel did not think he would actually hurt Finrod, not there and then, but her eyes widened as she rushed to her brother’s side, seeing a single drop of blood at the very point of Celegorm’s blade… then she was tripping over her own feet, stumbling back as a shudder ran through Finrod, his eyes bulging wide with terror and pain for a scant moment before suddenly lighting up, flashing silver-white instead of their usual serene blue.

She made to cry out in horror, going for her sword, but her hand stopped, and no words came to her. As she watched, Finrod’s body seemed to split down the middle, writhing, barely managing to stay standing. The straps that held his armour on burst open, and the plates bounced to the stone floor and rolled away with an echoing series of clangs. He was in pain, she could tell, there was madness in those burning eyes. She did not even need to access his mind to feel his agony go through her like a lance, rooting her to the spot. And then suddenly Finrod’s body seemed to tear entirely apart, something much larger bursting from his chest… it was a _wolf_ , she realised, horror coursing through her. A wolf with shaggy yellowish golden fur, but larger than it should be, graceless, out of proportion. The wolf that had been her brother batted lightly at Celegorm’s chest, sending his sprawling across the flagstones with horrifying force. She watched as Curufin drew his sword in a single, fluid motion, fear plain and apparent in his eyes, but dancing just beyond the reach of the wolf nevertheless, distracting it as Celegorm struggled to his feet, wincing in pain.

Coming back to herself for a moment, Galadriel seized Orodreth by the collar, pulling him backwards, holding him close to her. “We can do nothing” she said. “This is - ”

But she got no further, for at that moment there was an almighty crash from the inner door, which was bursting form its hinges, splintering into fragments… and then suddenly another wolf was there, bounding across the flagstones and knocking Celegorm and Curufin to the ground. It was huge and black, with silver paws that flashed against the stones as it danced around the golden wolf. Suddenly the newcomer howled, a horrible sound, endless and strangled and filled with pain, the sound ringing in the stone vault of the entrance hall. The guards who had been busying themselves by the outer door had frozen in terror and were staring aghast at the wolves, or shrinking back into the shadows. Galadriel could not say she blamed them.

All she could do was watch as the two wolves squared off against each other, circling and snarling, their teeth longer and sharper than any natural creature’s. She realised with a jolt that the black and silver wolf was bleeding, a bloom of bright red spreading into the silver-white patch of fur on its breast, dripping onto the paving stones. Her stunned mind worked through the spiraling implications, but she could do nothing save to let Orodreth cling to her and to hold him in her arms as they watched in horror and fascination.

The wolves were not graceful; they even seemed ungainly, or at least at first. They lumbered past each other, eyes never leaving the other, one lurching forward occasionally, snapping and growling. Then suddenly, too quickly for Galadriel to see which had moved first, they leapt at each other, colliding with a sickening thud of flesh and fur crashing together in mid-air. They were fighting then, a raging mass of teeth and claws and blurred black and golden fur that moved too quickly to see what was going on. More dark blood was spilled; their paws slid a little in it on the flagstones, but she could not tell whose blood it was.

Then they were drawing apart, the golden wolf falling backwards onto its hind legs, letting out a long, keening whine. She could see blood staining the golden fur of the creature that had been her brother not a few minutes before and her heart stopped, before she realised that the other wolf, although it was still standing, was bleeding much more severely.

They were making eye contact, and she was sure they would clash again, when both suddenly froze and looked up, at exactly the same moment. As though on cue there came a long howl. Galadriel’s heart stopped for a moment, remembering why the guards were here in the first place, why they had been preparing the defences. The wolves of the enemy had come, and they were at the gates.


	9. Chapter 9

The heavy outer doors of the entrance hall exploded inwards off their hinges with a great splintering crash, the sound echoing strangely in the stone vault above. Celegorm felt himself scrabbling to draw his sword, his hands clumsy as he whipped around to face the door, to face whatever may come through it… only to immediately close his eyes, blinking at the burning halo of brightness that obscured the newcomer.

His mouth fell open; he knew that light. But his mind went blank suddenly as he saw the wolves, streaming through the door, flowing around something that was obscured by that hauntingly familiar brilliance. Wolves bounded into the hall, wolves of every shape and size and colour, eyes and teeth flashing cruelly, low growls starting in their throats. Celegorm drew his sword, wheeling about to protect his brother who was still getting to his feet, but then he realised that the wolves were not attacking; they were merely forming a wide circle, surrounding their little group at the centre of the hall, then making a path that led towards the broken outer doors where that white light blazed. _A guard of some sort?_ The thought made Celegorm uneasy, for he could not see who was at the door… _but that light…_

“Tyelko” Curufin seized Celegorm’s arm at the elbow, leaning heavily on him as though hurt. “That’s a Silmaril.” His voice was quiet, little more than a whisper, but filled with a strangled, broken urgency. “They have a Silmaril.”

Celegorm merely nodded, mutely, trying to squint past the blinding light to see who exactly held the jewel. The wolves circled tighter, all facing the two combatents, growling warningly, low in their throats. There were so _many_ of them… Celegorm gripped his sword hilt tighter, blinking. Suddenly the light at the door blazed even brighter, and a voice dropped into the hush that had fallen in the hall.

“ _Stop._ ”

“Show yourself!” Celegorm heard himself shout, as the light and its bearer entered the circle of snarling wolves. Even Finrod and Celebrimbor stood frozen, staring transfixed at that light, their fight suddenly forgotten. “Who holds the jewel of our father?”

“One who would help you.” The voice was low and melodic, and seemed to vibrate through one's very heart, infused with power. “Yes, son of Fëanor. One who would help _all_ of you.” The light of the Silmaril was lowered, and dimmed as though covered by a hand, revealing its bearer. She was impossibly tall, her curtain of dark hair rippling down her back, seeming to move of its own accord, though the air was still. Her eyes were whorls of dark purple-black. Behind her strode three others, one tall and silver haired, holding a drawn sword… _Thingol?_ And the others… he recognised Lúthien, hair bound back and fire in her eyes, and Beren, holding her hand. _So the wolves answer to them now? Or are they in league with our enemy?_ Celegorm’s mind was spinning, but all he could see was the Silmaril, and Melian bending down over Celebrimbor, concern on her face.

As he watched, Melian extended a hand over his prone form and the wolf whined piteously, before beginning to change back, body bucking and writhing in pain on the stones as the flesh split and reformed, causing blood to spurt from his wounds. Celebrimbor seemed to be semi-conscious, his eyes rolling back in his head as they watched. Melian was whispering something, holding the Silmaril out over his twitching, naked form on the ground, and Celegorm felt Curufin’s pain beside him, could almost hear the gears of his brother’s mind turning frantically as he watched his son suffering before them. Yet ever, Celegorm knew, Curufin’s eyes strayed back to the Silmaril… he knew this because he felt the same, drawn to it inexorably. _Ours._

Melian had laid a long-fingered hand on Celebrimbor’s forehead now, and was speaking quiet words… _a healing spell?_ It did not look like it was bringing him relief though, for Celebrimbor cried out in pain once more, his hands clawing convulsively at the stone floor, fingertips bloody. Celegorm felt Curufin shift beside him, the wolves at their backs snarling warningly… the moment stretched on into an infinity; he felt poised on the edge of doing something terrible, something that could not be undone, as Celebrimbor shouted out again, and Curufin sprang towards him, dropping to one knee, fury in his eyes, all his hatred directed at Melian.

She did not even look up, but simply extended a hand towards Curufin. She did not touch him; she did not have to. Curufin went stumbling backwards, as though struck in the chest by some invisible mass. He fell sprawling on the stones, rage and pain in his eyes.

“I am trying to heal him” said Melian, once more looking down at Celebrimbor. “But something is wrong… the jewel should aid the healing, but the wolf spirit within him is fighting it… he may be - ”

She did not get any further. As if watching himself from afar, Celegorm felt his body move, quick and agile as a striking snake, for he could bear this no longer, he had to do _something_ … he seized Lúthien from behind her mother, even as Curufin surged forward at Melian. Celegorm felt his knife in his hand, the flat of the blade pressing against the skin of Lúthien's throat, his other hand tangling in her silken hair… he had been fast, faster than any of them could react.

“Let my nephew go” he barked out, letting the anger that had been pent up inside him flood into the words. “Call off your wolves and give up the Silmaril, or she dies.” He jerked his hand in Lúthien’s hair. She turned around a little then, and he saw her face; was that pity? _I’m sorry_ , she seemed to say with her eyes, but before Celegorm could even register that much, several things were happening at once.

The hair clasped in his hand was growing shorter, thicker, and the body that he held pressed to his own was _changing_ , muscles working and slipping past each other as flesh rearranged itself. He let out a cry of shock, but did not drop his knife; yet his moment of confusion gave her just enough time to slip from his grasp, falling to all fours on the floor. _A wolf. She was a wolf._ The realisation hit him moments before she did, turning in a graceful circle and leaping back onto his chest, knocking him down with a single swipe of an elegant black paw, which she then planted on his chest. Sparks exploded in Celegorm’s eyes for the merest moment as his head hit the stone floor hard, before all went dark.

\--------- 

Finrod’s chest ached, his breath coming in ragged bursts as pain shot through his right front leg. The entrance hall was picked out in silver, concentrated on a bright point in the centre… the tall woman leaned over the injured wolf who had attacked him, the black pup with the silver feet. He had been young, burning with the fight, and Finrod’s blood had beat in his ears as they had torn into each other, rejoicing in the battle, rage coursing through him from some boundless well hidden within himself. But then the other ones had come, and the strange bright woman… he quailed in fear without knowing why at the mere thought of her. He could sense the other wolves, more clearly than anything else in the room save the dying pup, could feel their anger, their pain and their boiling hatred… they had served a different master, not so long ago, and that master had treated them cruelly.

Finrod knew their former master well, although he had been different then, had not been a wolf, his senses useless and weak. Perhaps that had been what had eased his pain though, he thought now. These wolves had escaped, but they had not yet recovered, for the pain was still in them, transmuted into boiling hatred, raw and fresh and dangerous.

He edged closer into the circle, feeling the wrenching pain in his injured foreleg; he was limping, he knew, and vulnerable for it. And so he stood still, every sense alert. He could feel the pain that the pup was in, and although it was not his own blood that gushed upon the stones, he could feel it just as acutely as he could feel the agony of the other wolves. He had done that. The realization hit him cruelly hard, causing him to stumble back, falling a little as he shifted the weight on his injured leg.

He could do nothing but watch, as the bright woman held the light over the pup, as he writhed in pain and changed form, becoming a weak, fragile thing… as the son of Fëanor, the golden fair one who was filled with hate, seized the girl who held a secret, as she turned into a wolf. She was a sister to him now, too, and as she changed he felt her strength flow into him, a little, felt the other wolves around them look up, take notice. They loved her; she led them. She had saved them from their cruel master and they were beholden to her now.

The black wolf knocked down her attacker with deadly grace, holding him to the floor. Was he dead? Perhaps. Finrod looked back to the woman who held the light, that strange bright thing that hurt his eyes and drew him in, enthralled, all at once. She was holding it over the young one, and he was hurting, bleeding… suddenly, a figure came barreling at the pair from one side, a bright blade in his hand, and Finrod did not think he simply leapt, for no one would hurt the pup any more, not after all he had been through, what Finrod himself had put him through… anger burned through him, fuelled by his own pain and that of the wolves all around the room, for though he had tried to hurt the pup before he had been wrong, he had been confused… he had been cruel.

Guilt flooded his mind, unfamiliar and unsettling, needling at him even as the pain in his leg grew acute, turning his powerful loping gait into a limp. He fell upon the figure with the sword, whose mouth dropped open in surprise, his head tipping backwards, falling to the ground under him… he knew this one, it was the one from the forest clearing, the one with the sharp little knife that had cut above his eyes, bright steel spilling his blood. And in his other life he knew this one too. There was hatred there in his old mind, and he could almost access it still at the very borders of new one.

The one with the drawn sword was grasping desperately at the bright light the strange, powerful woman held, but even as his fingertips brushed it his whole body convulsed, and he let out a terrible, rending scream that was pure pain, tortured and broken. He fell backwards to the floor, clutching his hand close to his chest, his face a mask or hatred and horror, pale and blotchy with pain. Finrod almost felt _sorry_ for him in that instant, but it was too late, he was already bounding towards the fallen son of Fëanor, leaping in for the attack…

Then the bright woman was rising to her feet, the light growing brighter in her hand, blindingly bright, stabbing into Finrod’s eyes and making him fall backwards… her voice rang in his head, but he did not even need to hear what she said to understand her meaning.

“ _Enough._ ”

Once again, there was power in the word, not blinding bright power of the kind that the jewel held – although it enwrapped her own strength, reinforced it - but a shadowy power, redolent the quiet of the forests when the world was new-made. Dark, but with no malice to it, tranquil, but commanding, born of a preternatural _stillness_ that any caught in the grip of that voice could not help but adopt.

Finrod felt himself pinned backwards, that voice resounding in his mind. It was as if he were being forced out of his own body, something deep within him fighting desperately, clawing at his flesh which was shifting, changing… he clung desperately to his consciousness, trying to concentrate on the pain in his leg, the stone floor on which he had been forced to his knees, even the intolerable pain of the wolves of the pack.

It was not enough. He was dimly aware of himself slipping from his form, even as his consciousness bled away, leaving him to slip into that great whispering darkness.

\---------- 

Celebrimbor woke slowly, shapes blurring into focus as his senses gradually reassembled themselves. He was lying in a bed, he realised, and there were two faces looming above him, one golden-haired, one dark. He drew in a burst of breath, letting out a frightened whimper as he recognised Finrod, right arm bound in a sling… and suddenly it was all coming back, everything that had happened, ( _had it really happened?_ ) the conversation in the forest, Finrod becoming the wolf, the attack, his own blood pooling in the mud… and then later, they had fought again, he had heard his father threatened, it had woken him from a deep black dream… and then there had been more blood. He had not know he had so much blood to shed.

He scrambled backwards in the bed, pain shooting through him, made clumsy by the thick bandages that wrapped his chest, arms and stomach.

“Ssh! Easy now, Curufinwion” A hand grasped his forearm lightly and he let out a yelp of alarm, for he had almost forgotten about the other figure. His mouth dropped open, for she was beautiful; almost aggressively so, incongruous amid his pain. Her voice was soft and musical. “You had a narrow escape. But we can help you, if you can trust us.”

Celebrimbor opened his mouth, but no words came out, only a dry buzzing sound. He flinched back as Finrod offered him a glass of water.

“Celebrimbor!” Finrod’s face looked pained, remorseful. “Celebrimbor, you must trust me. I… I am sorry for what I did to you. Truly, if I could take back what was done…” he frowned. “The wolf... no,  will not say that the wolf made me do it. I will not try to absolve myself of the responsibility. But I hope that in time you may come to forgive me, and even to be able to use the wolf within you to your advantage. It is what I aim to learn to do.” His words were coming in a rush now, thick with emotion. “Lúthien has been telling me…” he trailed off, sighing. “But there will be plenty of time for that. Now you must heal.”

_Lúthien?_

She laid a gentle, quelling hand on Finrod’s injured arm, taking the glass of water from his other hand and offering it to Celebrimbor. He eyed it suspiciously for a moment before thirst got the better of him and he grasped it with trembling fingers, taking a long, clumsy drink.

“Now - ” began Lúthien, when the glass was empty, but she got no further than that. Celebrimbor, reaching around to place the empty glass on the table beside his bed, had caught sight of the source of the light in the room.

He gasped, knocking the glass to the floor. A Silmaril burned bright on the bedside table, looking strangely out of place in a quite ordinary lampstone holder.

“Ah” said Finrod. “We were just about to get to that.”

“The Silmaril has indeed come into my possession” said Lúthien, as Celebrimbor carefully lifted his hand, making to touch the jewel; but something stopped him at the last moment, the sudden flash of an image in his mind, a memory that he wasn’t even certain was real… _his father, touching the Silmaril, falling backwards and screaming in pain…_

“My… father…?” Celebrimbor barely managed to choke out the words, afraid of the answer he would get.

“Curufin is alive and well” said Lúthien, making a face. “The Silmaril badly burned his hand, but he is healing, at least in body. He and Celegorm are…” she cast about for the right word. “They are _contained._ ”

Celebrimbor was shocked. “You mean you’ve locked them up?”

“They are under lock and key, yes” said Finrod. “Until they agree to cooperate.”

“Their price is the Silmaril?”

Finrod sighed. “And you.”

Celebrimbor stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence, although he was not entirely sure why he should be. “I… I’m touched.”

“You don’t have to go with them” said Lúthien, sharply. “You can stay here. Let me teach you how to control the wolf. You could be great, you know.” She looked at Finrod, then back to Celebrimbor, and there was hope in her eyes. “I will leave for a while to marry Beren, of course. But that does not mean that I will put the wolf aside forever! And… with the three of us learning to use the skill, learning _together_ …”

Celebrimbor felt his eyes slip back to the Silmaril, as he thought over the proposition.

“Ah” said Lúthien, her voice heavy. “Of course.”

“The gem belongs to Lúthien now” said Finrod stiffly.

“You disagree with me on this count” said Lúthien. “Actually so does Beren. Or rather, it is indeed ours, but I do not think that is for the best. My mother and Galadriel have both foreseen – although they cannot see the details - that this cursed jewel will bring nothing but trouble and destruction to Doriath, if it stays in our family.”

Celebrimbor could not help but smile. “I certainly know how that feels.”

Lúthien looked at him sympathetically. “And yet, if I were to renounce it, then it would fall to you.”

Celebrimbor was shocked. “Me? But…”

“Your uncles have blood on their hands” said Finrod. “The blood of my own people, the blood they shed at Alqualondë. The Silmaril itself demonstrated plainly enough that it rejected them, when it burned your father.”

“It was not the Silmaril _itself_ ” said Celebrimbor, unable to stop himself. “It was the Valar that hallowed the jewels.”

“A technicality.”

“No” said Celebrimbor, his voice rising. “No, it’s not a - ”

“The fact remains” cut in Lúthien, “that you remain the only member of the house of Fëanor that would not be burned by the Silmaril.”

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow, trying to take this in. “Are you sure?”

They all looked at the jewel sitting innocuously enough on the stand, and suddenly Celebrimbor knew what he had to do. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he placed his hand over the Silmaril, closing his hand around it. He had been bracing himself for burning pain, for madness, for torment, but there was nothing; only a gentle warmth as the jewel responded to his touch, in the way that they had.

He turned back to Lúthien and Finrod, to see that they were smiling broadly.

“If you want it” said Lúthien “you can have it. My father will not be pleased, what with his stuck-up sense of honour, but I have what I want” she smiled for a moment, her eyes far away “for Beren is all that I want.”

“I…” Celebrimbor drew himself up, as proudly as he could, given the fact that he was still lying down. “Thank you. I accept, on behalf of the house of Fëanor.”

Finrod smiled broadly. “Good. One less of those accursed things for your uncles to worry about and chase after. Now, when you are healed, how about we start learning how to tame these wolves within ourselves?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make your own headcanons about what Celebrimbor chooses with regard to his uncles! (I know what I think he does but I leave it to my readers to decide for themselves.)
> 
> But yes, that's the end and thank you for having patience with this rather odd and very AU fic! It went in some unexpected directions, (for me too) but I hope it was as much fun to read as it was for me to write.


End file.
